


Mankai Suisougakubu

by ImberNox



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Band Fic, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Long Shot, Multi, Transphobia, author is a trans man, characters will be tagged as they appear, i only tagged endgame ships but there's a lot of poly, i put common trigger warnings in my beginning notes, izumi is the director and a lesbian and this is bc i love her
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 122,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26492377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImberNox/pseuds/ImberNox
Summary: Mankai High's Wind Symphonic gets a new director by the name of Tachibana Izumi. With only three members in the club initially, she goes to great lengths to recruit new members for her band and secure funding opportunities. Thus begins a long two years of practices and rehearsals. Along the way, Izumi realizes that, for all she needs musicians in her band, her musicians need her and each other as family even more.
Relationships: Arisugawa Homare/Mikage Hisoka, Chigasaki Itaru/Utsuki Chikage, Hyoudou Juuza/Settsu Banri, Ikaruga Misumi/Miyoshi Kazunari, Sakuma Sakuya/Usui Masumi, Takatoo Tasuku/Tsukioka Tsumugi
Comments: 176
Kudos: 187





	1. Ten Chairs

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is the first /longfic/ I've worked on in many years that I've actually posted. I basically went feral while practicing flute one day and decided that I needed to see Mankai Company play instruments (also started screaming aloud when I read that one backstory abt Matsukawa being proficient on all instruments?????). I can't promise super regular updates, since graduate school kills me every night, but I do try to work on this whenever I have free time. I hope you enjoy what I manage to write and post!
> 
> ((I put trigger warnings in the beginning notes of each chapter for common triggers and give very vague descriptions of how it's portrayed for readers' sakes.))

“Alright, Ms. Tachibana. All that’s left is to give you your keys.”

“You could just call me Director, if you’d like.”

“Yes, yes, Director Tachibana. Here is your key ring. Takes a little while to get used to, but all of the keys are a little different. The silver keys are for building access, and those little black keys are to your rooms.”

“Understood, sir. Thank you very much for this opportunity.”

“Of course, Ms. Tachibana.”

“Director.”

“Yes. Do you remember where the band room is from your tour earlier? If you’d like, we could have one of our other faculty escort you.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine. Thank you again.”

“Yes, and take care with the students.”

Izumi ducks out of the staff lounge as swiftly as she can without getting accused of fleeing from the principals. Lord, she hates the stuffiness of administration. There are only a few other faculty members in the lounge this early in the morning, but they don’t spare her even a glance as she exits.

It’s still only 6:30 in the morning, and there’s still another hour and a half before the students begin to show up for their first day of the new school year. The hallways are echoingly empty in the quiet and silver colors of the morning. A few faculty members pass Izumi in the hallway as she makes her way to the back of the school. They offer her slight bows, and a few very early third years give her sluggish ‘good mornings’ as they head to their club rooms.

She’s missed high school, she thinks, as she catches sight of her old water fountain. College was definitely better – infinitely better – and music school was the best she’s gotten yet. But high school is a funny sort of thing, and she isn’t upset to be back. Though, she’ll admit she’s thankful to be on the teaching side of things this time around.

Even so, Mankai is a sweet place to return to after eight years of freedom : studying her ass off in electrical engineering and music education (a combo that was the subject of amusement for her friends).

Better yet, she gets to return to Mankai as _band director_. They may as well have handed her free paychecks. There was no way this would even be comparable to something as grueling as ‘work.’ She’d just coax the squeaks away from the clarinets and fix the mouth techniques of the flutes. The brass section should be even easier to maintain.

It takes her three tries with the key ring to find the correct key to the band room. The door is a little old, too, and it takes a bit of force to slide to the right, but she gets it open. She enters the room. Then, she goes a little still and blinks.

There are only ten chairs in the room.

She looks around. Nope. Only ten chairs in the room.

She backs out of the room and double-checks the room’s number plate. Room 223. She reasons with herself that the key _had_ worked, too. This was definitely the room.

She peeks back inside.

Ten chairs. One, two, three, four, five, she counts, six, seven, eight, nine, ten chairs.

She straightens her tie, fixes the cuffs of her blazer, and sets back off to the faculty room. _Ten chairs_.

She passes a faculty member she’s already seen twice this morning now : a scruffy-looking man wearing clothes that are a little too frugal for a teacher of this well-established of a high school to be wearing. Did he comb his hair this morning?

“Um, excuse me, you’re the new hire, right? For the band director position.”

She tries her best to smile convincingly at the man despite her annoyance at being stopped. “Yes! I’m Tachibana Izumi, but, please, just call me Director.”

“Ah, I remember now. So, um, Director, are you lost? I thought I saw you head this way just a few minutes ago. If you need directions-”

“Oh, no, I’m fine. Thank you, though! I just forgot that I had a question for the vice principal. Have a great morning!” And she bolts before he can respond.

Her flats sweep on the floors of the hallways. She rounds the corner. _Ten chairs_. There’s the faculty room. She pauses outside and fixes her hair. This is not how she had been hoping her first day would go, but she can at least make sure she looks professional throughout it. She enters.

This time, three different people glance up upon her entrance. Their faces are blank, if not curious. One woman in the back looks a bit kinder. Izumi realizes both the principals are no longer present.

“Ah, excuse me,” she apologizes, though she’s not sure why. She’s not a student here any longer.

The man in the back row – by the windows – gestures for her to come over. Izumi recognizes him as her old calculus teacher, though she’s forgetting the name off the top of her head. Suddenly, maybe she is just a schoolgirl in trouble for bursting in disruptively.

“Ms. Tachibana-”

“Director is fine!”

In theory, she _should_ be used to this by now. She’s said it to every person she’s met since graduating music school. Anything to get a little respect around here. But it doesn’t keep her eyebrow from twitching a little when she offers the correction.

“Right. Is there something you forgot?”

“Oh, nothing really. I just had a question for the principals, you see. I couldn’t help but notice that the band room was, well, sparse in its seating.”

“Sparse?”

“Well, when I attended high school here, the band had over fifty members.” _But there were only ten chairs in the band room_.

“Ah,” he hums. Izumi wishes she could remember his name. Yamagita? Yamashita? “The band’s gotten a lot smaller in recent years. In fact, I don’t think they’ve performed at all in the last five years.”

He has to be kidding her.

“I’m sorry?” she asks. “How many students are in the band, then?”

He sighs. “Nouma-sensei,” he calls. The woman with the kind face looks up from her desk. “Do you have the clubs binder around you, by any chance? This lady-” Izumi grits her teeth, “here’s the new band director. Says she wants to know about club attendance.”

“Ah,” Nouma agrees. “Come on over here, sweetie. I think I have it here somewhere.”

‘Sweetie’ sounds a lot better in her mouth than ‘lady’ does in her old teacher’s. Izumi has no problem moving over to Nouma. “Thank you so much. I’m so sorry to bother you.”

“Nonsense!” Nouma leans a little in her chair, and Izumi catches a whiff of her perfume. It’s a floral and thick scent like one could expect from a lot of older women’s perfumes, but she decides she likes it. “Better than having to talk with those young princes.”

Izumi manages to hold back her laugh. ‘Prince’ was certainly one way to put it, though she doesn’t think she’d ever reach an age where she’d call her former teachers ‘young.’ “All the same, Nouma-sensei.”

Nouma checks through the binder at the end of her desk, and Izumi busies herself by checking her phone. It’s not the best of manners, she’s aware, but her college friends are pestering her on LIME about her first day teaching high school. Her best friend has sent her a lengthy thread in the last five minutes, including a few humorous texts that include ‘Have a great first day of school, honey!” and “Mommy and Daddy are proud of you!”

Izumi resists the urge to text back and instead pockets her phone quietly as Nouma turns back to her, white binder in hand.

“Here we are, dear. Remind me of your name again?”

“Tachibana Izumi, ma’am.”

“How lovely. The last two band directors here have been rather uptight, young men. You’ll make a happy difference, I’m sure.”

“I’ll try my best.” Izumi thinks on it. She doesn’t remember ever crossing paths with Nouma while she was still a student here. “Nouma-sensei,” a hum, “I hope I’m not being too familiar when I ask how long you’ve taught here? I don’t remember seeing you here while I was a student.”

Nouma laughs. “Oh, I’ve only been teaching here three years or so.”

“I see. Where else have you taught?”

“All over the area. For a while I was with that new, modern Godza High. But they were too gung-ho about so much, so I applied for this job. Before that, I taught between Hanasaki, Ouka, and Fukou for nearly thirty years.” She finds a page in the binder and slides it over to Izumi. “Here we are, dear. Looks like you have about five students currently, though two graduated in March.”

Izumi _had_ been processing the idea of teaching high school for forty years, but the number ‘five’ snapped her attention right back to the binder. Sure enough, there were only five names on the page.

_Chigasaki Emika Trumpet Class 3-A_

_Minagi Meguru Clarinet Class 3-D_

_Furuichi Sakyo Trombone Class 2-B_

_Takato Tasuku Saxophone Class 2-A_

_Tsukioka Tsumugi Flute Class 2-A_

Izumi isn’t quite sure what to say.

“It’s a small bunch,” Nouma sighs. “But most of the arts clubs are dwindling lately. It seems Mankai is becoming rather well known for our soccer and track teams, rather than our band and theatre clubs.”

Izumi nods mutely.

“Ah, well. No one can stop the changes that come with time. That being said,” Nouma leans in a little close, “I have to advise that you take care with these youths. There’s not entirely normal kids.”

Izumi frowns. That sounds awfully discriminatory, but she can’t tell what about it is sending her red flags. Not entirely normal? “What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing. Did you want a copy of the page, dear?” And just like that, Nouma is upright in her chair once again.

“Oh, um,” Izumi blinks. “No, thank you. I suppose I won’t need more chairs in the room, after all.”

Nouma closes the binder gently. “I wouldn’t get too down about it. Minagi-kun, one of the two who just graduated, was one of our better students. He’s got a long list of siblings, too. We’ve already had his brother Tadoru-kun, and I believe one of the younger siblings is joining us this year. You should be able to expect at least one new member. The entire family is affiliated with music arts.”

“Ah, really?”

“And there’s always the usual club recruitment. You’ll be able to get more students in your band and even it out.” Even it out from what? “I always tell my students that if they work hard enough, they’ll be rewarded in some form or other.”

Ah, Izumi thinks. She’s back to being treated like a student again.

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you for taking your time to help me with that.”

“Any time, dear. You have a good first day.”

“You as well!” And with that, Izumi pushes her chair back and stands.

It isn’t until she’s back in the hallway with the door closed that she lets out the gust of air she’s been holding in. Five students, huh. Three students for this year. Maybe, if she’s lucky with new students, she’ll hit ten students total.

She starts walking back to her band room.

That’s not enough for a proper band at all. Tsukioka-kun, Takato-kun, Furuichi-kun. She lists them out in her head. Trombone, sax, and flute. Well, it’s not a horrible start. Two boys and a girl will help in recruitment, too. Three boys in a club might scare away any potential first-year girls, but maybe, this way, it’ll work.

Though, what Nouma said lingers in her head. Not normal? Were they complete nerds with dispositions that teachers found unpleasant? Had they done something unforgivably odd in the eyes of administration? Or did they get in trouble like the third-year clarinets did when Izumi was in her first year?

First, though, there are more important things to think on. She remembers the layer of dust lying on the percussion section’s protective coverings. First, she needs to clean and tune what hasn’t been used in months.

_Hanami_ was earlier than usual this year. Unusually warm weather in March coaxed the buds on the cherry trees to blossom – and, of course, fall – before April even began. It’s the first time since elementary school that Sakuya has walked the way to school without getting hit by a falling blossom or two.

He’s thirty minutes early to Mankai High, and he cannot sit still on the bench outside the entryway. It feels too rash to go running into the building already, considering he doesn’t know what the atmosphere of this new school will be like. It would be better to wait until some other students arrive. Then, he can copy what they’re doing to avoid embarrassing himself.

He swings his feet a little as he waits and checks his phone. 7:44 am. Still a bit to go.

He sits back and thinks on it. His foster mother hadn’t been keen on the way he had run out of the house this morning. In fact, she isn’t keen on many of Sakuya’s choices, though he often tries to keep her feelings in mind when navigating important subjects. But Mankai hadn’t been her first choice, and Hanasaki Middle School hadn’t been her first choice, either. She sent her children, instead, to Sayuri Middle and its sister Sayuri High.

But the best that Sakuya could manage to test into, given the abruptness of his move to live with the Yoshinagas, had been Hanasaki.

As for Mankai High, Sakuya had been insistent. Mankai is a step down from Godza’s prestige or Koikaku High School’s educational value, and that had bothered his foster mom a good bit and had been the foundation for many arguments. But his phone has been filled with the competition pieces of Mankai Band for years. He’s certain that joining Mankai High’s band will take him all the way in realizing his desire to make music with his own hands.

He’s wanted to create the joy of music himself for so long that it’s an intrinsic part of his identity now. He doesn’t remember when exactly he realized that music was what he loved most. Maybe it was the music lessons in elementary school and middle school and the gradual transition to when that period was his favorite of the day. Maybe it was when he started spending time at the music store to pass the time before he would have to return home for dinner.

The memories of his parents are distant. One of the possessions of theirs that he still has on a shelf in his bedroom is a CD for The Nutcracker as performed by a Russian orchestra. He only has the vaguest memory of listening to the performance around Christmas with his parents, but it feels like something special to him. Something he can share with his parents. It’s not the only CD on his shelves, though. He’s collected as many orchestral recordings and wind symphonic pieces as he’s been able to afford with his small allowances.

He’s waited long enough, Sakuya thinks. Now, while he still has the opportunity of music class and band club, he wants to seize the sounds of the air in his own hands.

There’s also the itsy bitsy issue that he has yet to figure out which instrument he wants to play. All the instruments of the music he’s listened to are pretty. He’s as fond of the fluttering flutes as he is the triumphant trumpet fanfares. He’d be fine with playing any of them.

He’s read on the internet, though – on blogs and in the comment sections of respected group’s recordings – that an instrument should be a part of the player’s identity, and he’s not sure if he’s seen an instrument yet that was _his_. He’s yet to listen to a soloist and swell with pride of the solo being _his_ instrument or jealousy that it wasn’t _him_ playing.

He supposes that clarinet would be nice enough to try first. It has a soft, wooden sound to it, and he’s liked the tricky scales that he’s heard in some of his music. It’s not a solo instrument very often, either, and he doesn’t think he’d be comfortable playing alone in front of others anyway.

Music is something that he wants to enjoy with others : in a band with his troupemates, playing to support others and listen to others, knowing that their trained ears could still pick up on his lines, without ever overshadowing them.

The first student comes through the gate.

Sakuya straightens his perch on the bench and snaps his gaze down to his phone. He waits until the green-haired student disappears through the doors. He checks his phone. 7:59. Sakuya hops up and heads inside.

His move wasn’t as subtle as he had been hoping, apparently. The older student looks up from his locker and offers something that looks like it should be a smile but is definitely a smirk.

“First year lockers are over there,” the student tells him and points a finger over to the far wall.

“Right!”

Sakuya swears he feels eyes on his back as he heads over to the wall and begins checking for his name, but, when he musters the courage to glance behind him, the student has already started walking away. Sakuya feels something in his head file away the student’s face in his memory : large glasses, smirk instead of a smile. It’s not something he’ll need to remember, but it’s not like he can help it, either.

Maybe it’ll come in handy if he gets lost. He slips on his inside shoes and starts looking for his classroom.

“Nii-san, walk with me!”

“Onii-san, walk _me_ to school!”

“No, me!”

“Guys, stop complaing.”

“Shut up, Kaoru! You don’t even care if Nii-san walks with you!”

“You’re right. It’s because I’m actually grown-up.”

“Oh, I’m Kaoru, I think I’m all grown-up just because I don’t care if my big brother walks me to school or not. My head is huge, and I think I’m the coolest person ever.”

“Mitsuru, don’t be immature.”

“Nii-san! You should come with Suberu and I since you can take us to the same place.”

“That’s no fair! He’s _never_ walked with me before!”

Tsuzuru sighs as three different brothers pounce on his back. He’s just trying to lace his shoelaces so he can get out the door and not be late for the first day of the new school year. Scratch that. He’s _already_ late, and it’s because Noboru, Suberu, Tooru, and Mitsuru can’t stop arguing over who he’ll walk to school. Not that any of them have yet asked who he _wants_ to walk to school.

He pries the grubby fingers of Noboru, the greasy fingers of Suberu, and the clean but adamant hands of Mitsuru off of his school uniform. The last thing he wants is to be reprimanded for coming to school looking like he hadn’t washed his blazer.

“I’ll walk Kaoru halfway, and that’s only because Fukou is on the way to Mankai. The rest of you can bother Meguru.”

“Meguru-nii-san isn’t cool like you,” Mitsuru sulks. “He gets mad at me if I take too long.”

“Shut up! Mommy’s going with you anyway.”

Mitsuru shoots quite the nasty look in Tooru’s direction. “That’s because Mommy _loves_ me!”

“Enough,” Tsuzuru sighs. “Mom loves all of you, and she would love you even more if you guys would just behave once in a while.” Four sulking expressions. “Kaoru, are you ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s go. The rest of you had better get to school on time. I won’t take excuses this year.”

“Yes, nii-san,” four voices mumble.

Halfway along the walk to school, Usui Masumi pauses at Harugaoka River and watches the leaves float down the gentle stream. The shade of the street overpass is cool and inviting. He sits and turns up the music playing through his earbuds.

Itaru waits outside the gates to Citron’s foster home. Guy has likely already left for school, famously disliking Citron’s morning laziness, but Itaru is just as lazy as Citron. The breeze has picked up a bit, and the air’s colder than Itaru’s been expecting. He shivers and pulls his scarf out of his bag. He wait a predictably long amount of time until Citron comes flying out the door ten minutes late.

“Sorry! I woke up on the long side of the bed!”

“Wrong side,” Itaru corrects. “And I’m not sure waking up on the wrong side of the bed necessarily means you’re late.” He clicks through the levelling-up animation on his game. “Let’s hurry.”

Citron falls into step with him happily, humming some tune Itaru hasn’t heard yet.

“Is your host dad still angry with you?”

“I do not think so! He told me to act well today. That is a good thing, yes? A way of saying ‘good luck?’”

“I think he’s worried you’ll do a repeat of last year.” Last year : when Citron had decided that the best way to introduce himself to the class was by bringing a baguette to class and proceeding to demonstrate his love for heavy metal by beating the ever-loving shit out of a desk with it. Itaru had gotten in a lot of trouble for laughing and encouraging Citron to continue.

“This year, I have no bread.”

“Yeah, that’s good, I think.”

Izumi can safely say that she doesn’t miss her high school days anymore. She’s had four first-years ask her for directions so far, and it’s only just the beginning of fifth period. Not that she minds giving directions, of course. She loves being a help to those who need it. God knows she didn’t get it from her parents. But what on Earth are these students doing to get lost on the first day of school when all they have to do is stay in their classroom?

Of the six periods in the day, she only teaches class for three of them : periods two, three, and four. They’re easy enough to manage, since the students come to the band room and she doesn’t have to walk around the school building. Most of them have a decent level of experience on the piano and with recorders from their middle school compulsory classes, so she decides to keep them to a stricter expectation.

She recognized Takato Tasuku’s name in her second period class, though she chose to not cal him out in front of his peers. Furuichi Sakyo had been in her third period course. With any luck, she’ll be seeing them after school today when the upperclassmen gather for after-school clubs.

With even more luck, they’ll be open to collaboration with her on recruiting strategies.

But it’s still only fifth period, and she has no classwork to keep up with for now. So, Izumi hides away in the band room with the percussion section. She’s already cleaned the xylophone, song bells, and marimba, as well as checked the chimes and cymbals (crash, hi-hat, and finger). She has her eye on the gong next, but it’ll take some time to warm up before she can check the tone of its crash.

For now, she starts dusting off the snare covers.

Back in her time, the percussionists in Mankai’s Wind Symphonic Band had been obnoxiously loud. She clearly remembers the time the section had decided to play fortissimo during one of their piano segments and were severely reprimanded for making light of after-school rehearsal, as well as how loudly they would play to drive the flutes and clarinets out of the room during practice hours.

By the time she’s finished with the snares, she realizes that the timpani has yet to be touched, and she starts in on them. The harp, sitting lonely in the far back corner of the room, gets its strings tightened and tuned.

She rearranges the chairs in the room to give the seating arrangement a bit more breathing space. Having the front row clustered so close to her podium is nerve-wracking. She’d like to keep her students – though she loves them – at a good arm’s distance away for personal space reasons. There had been a very energetic second-year in her fourth period that had tried – unsuccessfully – to flirt with her. She’s not about to encourage any repeat attempts.

There aren’t any stands in the room, either, so she takes the time to haul them in from the instrument storage room, where they’ve been left unceremoniously shoved behind the lower brass racks.

And then, before she’s even touched the gong, the bell rings for the end of sixth period.

She almost misses the sound of the bell, too. She’s scrutinizing the clappers and shakers when it finally registers with her what the background noise is, and she leaves them on the velvet cloth that she has draped over a desk in the back. It’s about time she’s finally started warming up the gong.


	2. jazz, flute, trombone case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sakuya, Sakyo, Tax, and Tsumugi get introduced! Izumi is gay, and a certain fuyugumi member is trans. We see the kinds of music that Sakyo, Tax, and Tsumugi like to play most on their instruments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw // mentions of transphobia, homophobia (school administration policing bathrooms)

The school’s gong is just as large as Izumi remembers it being during her days in Mankai Wind Symphonic Band, and the mallet is correspondingly large and soft-padded. While she had been utterly ignorant to the ways of percussion in her high school days, she’s now trained enough to know how to take care of and play such integral instruments.

The thing about gongs – a crucial point to teach beginner percussionists – is that one cannot simply _hit_ the gong with a mallet. If it’s cold enough, or static enough, the gong will simply shatter. So, a careful combination of regular usage and warming-up is required to maintain and play a gong well.

She lightly touches the mallet to the side of the gong, just away from the edge, and taps it. Thus begins the long process of tapping lightly, in methodical circles, around the gong’s circumference. As her loops count over and over, she increases the strength behind the mallet hits. It’s about a ten minute process – for her, at least – to warm it up, and she’s ready to move on to trying out the center when the door to the band room slides open.

Izumi lifts her head in the hope of seeing Takato or Furuichi, or even Tsukioka, walk through the door.

But a young, pink-haired boy stands in the doorway instead. He peeks through the entry and stares wide-eyed at the chairs and chalkboard.

Izumi clears her throat. “Are you looking for something?” she asks in what she hopes is a friendly enough tone.

The kid startles pretty badly. Evidently, he hadn’t yet recognized her presence in the back amongst the percussion. Holding a mallet to a gong isn’t exactly the impression Izumi was hoping to give, but it’ll do. She’s not sure it necessarily warrants the wide-eyed stare the boy is giving her, though.

“You alright?”

The boy bows immediately. “I’m so sorry for intruding! I was looking for the band room!”

“You found it, kiddo. Interested in the band?” She wonders briefly if clubs have changed since her days in high school. Usually, first years don’t come around looking until the club fair happens.

“Yes, ma’am! Very interested!”

“Ah, you can just call me Director. What’s your name?” She stands up straight and dusts off her pants.

“Sakuma Sakuya.” The boy stands up straight, too. “It’s nice to meet you!”

The new name excites her a little, and she detaches herself from the gong’s side. “Nice to meet you, too, Sakuma-kun. Are you a first year student? I didn’t see your name on the members list for band.”

“Yes, ma- um, Director! I was hoping that there would be room for me to join. I know it’s early! No one’s started handing out club flyers yet, but I’m really interested, and I wanted to see the band room as soon as possible!”

“You’re welcome, of course. You can come in further, too.” Sakuma nervously edges a single step further into the room. “What has you interested in band? Middle school participation?”

“I actually have no experience with instruments. I’ve, um, I’ve been really interested in music since I was a kid, and I’ve wanted to learn an instrument for a really long time now, but I wasn’t sure when would be a good time to start, and I thought that high school might be a good time, and I promise I’ll be the most attentive and dedicated, and I really-”

Izumi laughs. “Slow down there, kiddo.” ‘Room to join,’ she thinks fondly. Bless his heart. There are only ten chairs in the otherwise huge room, after all. “You’re of course welcome to join even without experience. But, you’re right, clubs don’t start until next week.”

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t-”

“Would you get out of the doorway?” a deep, irritated voice asks.

Sakuma startles and turns towards the student still hidden from Izumi’s view by the doors. “Oh, um, excuse me!” Sakuma stumbles and backs up to let the speaker in.

Furuichi enters the room with one of the trombone cases from the storage room. He spares Izumi a quick glance before bee-lining to the second row of chairs and setting down his trombone case. He sets to assembling his instrument : almost pointedly ignoring Izumi and Sakuma.

“Furuichi-kun,” Izumi tries, “I’m so glad you decided to come today. I saw on the club members’ list that I might expect you for band.”

Furuichi slides his mouthpiece into his trombone with a metallic click. It gives a low echo. “The band’s small,” he says in a clipped tone. “If I didn’t come, there wouldn’t be anyone else here.”

Izumi spots a tinge of pink on his ears, and suddenly the cold treatment makes a bit more sense. She manages to hide her amusement. “Ah, well, thank you for showing up in any case. Sakuma-kun here may be yet a new member to the club starting next week. Perhaps you could introduce yourself?”

Furuichi glances over his shoulder at her, then moves his gaze to Sakuma. Sakuma twitches a little under the unwelcoming gaze. His expression is something alarmingly close to contempt.

“Furuichi Sakyo. Third year. Trombone.”

“Sakuma Sakuya! I’m a first year, and I’m not sure yet which instrument I want to practice with, but I’ll try my best with whatever I end up playing!”

Izumi waits patiently for a few seconds. Furuichi does not provide a response. She prods, “And?”

Furuichi shifts a little. His cold expression breaks just for a moment. “Please consider joining our band,” he adds as a clear afterthought before turning back around and effectively closing the conversation.

So, maybe they’ll have to work on attitude before they begin working on pitch and rhythm building. She eyes Sakuma’s reaction, but the first year doesn’t seem too off-put by the interaction.

“So, Sakuma-kun,” she tries to lighten the welcome, “you said you’re not sure yet which instrument you’d like to play, but do you have any particular interests in instruments? A favorite to listen to?”

“Um, not really? I listen to all sorts of instruments. I guess I’d like to try all the ones that I can. But I also really love the sound of clarinets! Oh, and saxophones.” He says all of this with the purest of vigor.

Izumi feels a tug in her chest. She was like this once, too. “Clarinet’s a pretty instrument,” she agrees.

Furuichi lowers his trombone for a moment. “We don’t have a clarinetist,” he mutters before returning the mouthpiece to his lips to warm.

So, he _is_ listening. Izumi has his type pegged now : stern, short temper, tries to be mature, huge softie. Sakuma, likewise, beams at Furuichi’s response.

Movement at the door attracts all three of their attentions.

“Excuse us,” a voice says before Takato steps into the room. A thin boy with dark hair and light eyes follows a few steps behind him.

“Takato-kun,” Izumi greets. “It’s good to see you again.” She eyes the saxophone and flute cases in their hands. “Here to practice with Furuichi-kun?”

Takato nods. “Tsumugi’s not taking the music course this year, but he’s our flutist.” He gestures loosely to the boy hovering near him.

“Tsukioka-kun?” she checks. Tsukioka nods bashfully. So, the ‘Tsumugi’ in band was a boy, after all. “Wonderful. I was really hoping I’d have you three, at least, return for band.” She zeroes in on Tsukioka, and Takato nods a greeting at Sakuma as he leaves them. “You play flute, you said? How many years have you been at it?”

“Six years,” his voice is quiet but pleasant. “Though, I’m not very good with it.”

Takato turns back around with a frown. “Stop doing that.” He then joins Furuichi in the second row of seats.

Tsukioka stands still : a little flushed. He hides his embarrassment well, turning to Sakuya with a kind smile. “You’re a first year, aren’t you? It’s nice to meet you. I’m Tsukioka Tsumugi, but you can just call me by Tsumugi, if you’d like.”

“Sakuma Sakuya! I look forward to working with you!”

Izumi leaves the two boys alone to chat. She turns her attention back to the gong and resumes warming it up just a bit more. She tests it. The metal’s a little weak under the mallet tonally, but it’ll do for now. She sets the mallet down and heads over to check on Furuichi and Takato.

“So,” she starts, sliding into a seat in the front row just in front of them. “How was the first day of classes? Meet up with your friends and chat?”

The pair shift uncomfortably in their seats. She doesn’t really blame them : most instructors aren’t talkative with their students, especially not informally. Furuichi is still blushing, too.

“It was fine,” Takato finally says. “Tsumugi and I are in the same class again, so it’s not that different from last year, I guess.”

“You and Tsukioka-kun seem close.”

“Not really.” Takato’s eyes avoid hers.

Oh, that was interesting. She turns to Furuichi. “Furuichi-kun?”

He’s brave enough to make eye contact with her, at least. “I appreciate the education that’s offered at this school, even if I dislike the students here. I do my work, keep my head down, and come here for practice. That’s it.”

“Ah? What’s wrong about the students here?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Can we talk about our music instead?” is how Takato decides to rearrange the conversation. “We’re here to practice, aren’t we? And go through our introductions.”

Izumi hesitates. She’s curious as to why the pair of them – and, if she’s being honest, Tsukioka, too, based on the way his eyes had strayed over to them as soon as she had asked her question – are avoiding the topic. She wonders if it has anything to do with the warning Nouma-sensei had left her with. But she won’t push her new students away. These things take time and trust.

So, she agrees. “Practice is good. Recruiting new students into the band is also good, I think. I noticed that there aren’t any second-years in the band. Did the club have trouble with recruitment last year?”

Another pause. “We didn’t really try,” Takato admits.

Furuichi nods. “We didn’t end up getting any new people.”

“Alright. What about this year, then? I won’t accept only having four people in my band.”

Tsukioka leads Sakuma over to their group. They sit down a few chairs away. “There’s always the club fair,” Tsukioka offers. He smiles when Izumi looks his way. “We’d just need a good pitch.”

“A good pitch,” Izumi muses.

“Perhaps, we could include something that the upperclassmen might be interested in, too. Something they might not know or have seen yet about band.”

Takato sets his sax down, seemingly giving up on trying to play. He sighs. “We could perform around the school.”

“You don’t seem thrilled with that option.”

Takato shifts. “I don’t like performing in public very much,” he says. “Usually, I get harassed by girls or something.” Tsukioka laughs gently and earns Takato’s glare.

“Sorry, sorry,” Tsumugi hides a smile behind his hand. “You’ve just always been popular, Tasuku.” Takato looks down resolutely at his sax. Izumi fights a smile. “I think public performance could be good, though. We could play it to our skills.”

“I like the idea,” Izumi agrees. “Solos and duets could do a good job at showcasing what newcomers could learn if they join.”

“I don’t see how a flute, a sax, and a trombone will make a good image of the band.”

Ah, Furuichi’s grouchiness. Izumi will get him to be amicable if it’s the last thing she does. “Well,” she smiles. “I don’t mean to brag, but I can play all of our instruments proficiently. I can play whatever instrument you’d like as accompaniment for your etudes.”

“Etudes?”

They all turn to Sakuma. He blinks at them with wide, curious eyes.

“Etudes are like impromptu performances,” Tsumugi explains. “Usually, they involve improvisation for melody and rhythm.”

“That’s right! They can be the most fun part of playing for some musicians and absolutely inaccessible to others. It all depends on your playing style and whether or not you get into music theory.”

“Woah!” Sakuma’s smile is blinding. “That would be great! If everyone hears how good you are, they’ll have to join!”

“I like the optimism!”

“It's an alright idea,” Takato admits, “but who’s going to playing and when? Furuichi-san already mentioned it, but we’re only three musicians. Four musicians,” he adds when he sees Izumi go to speak. She sniffs a little. “That’s not enough to perform well.”

“Aha!” Izumi points her finger. The four boys jump a little. “Wrong! All musicians, no matter their level, play to influence others. Nothing is more inspiring than the newbie musician that practices his scales by the riverside.”

Furuichi snorts. “Music that isn’t an earsore is definitely preferable.”

“Bad attitude,” she critiques. “All of you could perform moving solos, if you tried. Including you, Sakuma-kun.”

“Yes, Director!”

Takato sighs. Tsumugi sends him a gentle look in response. Izumi decides it’s time they start really moving along the ‘music’ part of their after-school practice. She claps her hands together and climbs out of the chair.

“Why don’t the three of you play the best piece you’re comfortable with for me, and we’ll see where you’re at level-wise. I’m not expecting something like the Tokyo Wind Ensemble, of course. Just show me how you play.”

Furuichi, Takato, and Tsumugi share glances. Takato resumes warming his sax, and Tsumugi starts to unzip his flute case. Sakuma watches in awe as Tsumugi assembles his flute and sets the case onto the floor. A few notes from Furuichi’s trombone sound out. Tsumugi plays a half scale on his flute.

Izumi pages through the music books she has on her podium for band practice. Most of the material inside is note-training, but she wants something that properly combines breathing technique, tone building, and rhythm training. She lands on a small elements quiz and flips through the other two books to double-check that it’s available in all three instruments.

“Director,” she brightens at being called her preferred title, “when would you like us to begin?”

“Whenever’s fine,” she answers and smiles at Takato. “But since you asked, you’ll go first.”

He shifts in his seat a little : bring the reed to his lips and glances up once to make sure she’s paying attention before snapping his gaze back to his empty stand.

The melody starts off a little simple, bouncing between his fifths and keeping it within a single octave. It’s a jazz melody : one she’s heard before in similar variations. It’s slower than she was expecting, and she sets to keeping the tempo with her baton to help him out. He misses a beat, and she had to restart her tempo once he’s found his timing again.

The rhythm picks up a bit tricker : faster, utilizing his sevenths in the scale that he jumps around and adding another octave that he swings between high and low on. The eighth notes turn into sixteenth notes, and Takato dips lower in his range and stays there for a little. Slows down just enough to pick up a swing through syncopation again, lingers, then speeds back up to a tricky melody.

He’s conserving his breaths for now, which is impressive as it stands, but Izumi knows that in another thirty seconds he’ll be needing to take twice as many breaths to compensate. That’ll be something they work on going forwards.

For now, she enjoys the jazzy taste that Takato’s giving the four of them in the room. Sakuma’s eyes are shining as he watches Takato almost without blinking. Tsukioka’s fingering along as if he wants to match Takato’s notes, which Izumi doesn’t miss. And Furuichi sits still in his chair with only his furiously tapping foot betraying his enjoyment of Takato’s playing.

Takato continues a bit, fluctuating between the low and fast rhythms he establishes and the ascending fifths he plays through to maintain the swinging feel of his music. He switches into his _al coda_ when he ascends up to high f and holds the note for two measures – an effort that impresses Izumi – before he takes his breath and starts back down at d and closes with a final scale that goes up halfway before going all the way down to middle d.

He’s started sweating a little across his forehead by the time he pulls away.

There’s a moment where Takato pants to catch his breath, and Izumi processes the raw talent she’s just heard. Sakuma enthusiastically bursts into applause, and Izumi finds herself slowly clapping, too.

“That was really good,” she praises. “We can work on your breathing techniques later, but,” she nods, “yeah, that was much more than I was expecting from high schoolers. Takato-kun, how long have you been with the saxophone?”

“Six years.”

That’s more than impressive. With the way he played, Izumi had expected him to say that he’s been practicing since he was four or five.

“Are there any other musicians in your family?”

“No. My older brother played percussion when he was in middle school, but that was only for two years.”

“You take lessons?”

A hesitation. Then, “No.” Izumi raises an eyebrow, and he breaks. “I used to practice with Godza High back when I was a freshman,” he admits. “It was… horrible. But I did end up learning a lot.”

“Takato is our ace,” Furuichi summarizes succinctly.

Izumi nods. It isn’t going to take any more to convince her. She turns to Furuichi.

“Well, then it’s your turn, Furuichi-kun. Don’t feel any pressure to try putting on a performance that grand, unless, of course, you can.”

Furuichi shakes his head. “No. I’ve only been on trombone for three years now. Started in my last year of middle school. I’m afraid I missed my window to be that good.” Sakuma wilts a little in his seat, and Furuichi must notice it because he tacks on, “Not that others who start even later can’t get to be better than I am now.”

“We’re listening when you’re ready.”

Furuichi nods once more, curtly, and brings the mouthpiece to his lips.

His choice of performance isn’t flashy like Takato’s, but it conveys a sense of security with his instrument. The range he chooses to play in isn’t a beginner’s range by any stretch of the imagination, and he’s comfortable with it, which tells Izumi that he can be pushed beyond it with little practice. Having a trombone with comfort in high notes will be an asset to the band.

He finishes with a conventional sort of descending sequence, and Izumi marks off on her scale his approximate range.

“Very good! You sound very confident in your playing. You’ll be a good mentor to anyone who decides to pick up lower brass this year.”

“We still have to get new members first,” Furuichi reminds her.

Ah, that’s a smirk on his face. Izumi humors him with a laugh. “So we do. Thank you again for that performance. Maybe we can work more on your rhythm building moving forwards in our practices.” She turns to Tsukioka. “Tsukioka-san, would you finish it up for us?”

“Um, yes,” he fetches a book out of his schoolbag. “I don’t really have anything memorized, and I’m pretty bad at improv. I hope you don’t mind if I use sheet music?”

“Of course not! Everyone’s good at different things. I’m still really bad at improv, you know. I spent all my free time in music school memorizing different pieces so that it looks like I’m improvising when I play without sheet music.”

Furuichi smiles. “They didn’t ask you to work on your improv building?”

“Watch it, kid. I’ve still got almost ten years on you, and I’ve been playing trombone much longer, too, I might add.”

“Which instrument did you play in high school, Director?” Sakuma asks.

Tsukioka glances up from his papers in curiosity as he continues to shuffle them. Izumi realizes that all eyes are on her.

“Well, I started on trumpet in middle school. In high school, I picked up saxophone because one of our third saxophonists got really sick in my second year.” Takato perks up at this information. “But, by the time I got into music school, I really only wanted to go professional with trumpet.”

“When did you choose to go into music education?” Tsukioka asks politely.

“Oh, I don’t remember why exactly, anymore. I think it was… well, let’s see. I was a sophomore in music school, and I joined music school back in 2009. So, that was 2011. What happened in 2011? Oh! Well, besides all the horrible things happening around Fukushima and the protests, I was spending the spring vacation in Fujinomiya with my girlfriend.

“I remember we were taking a walk and came across a group of high schoolers practicing for the new school year. And I remember she mentioned something about the trumpets all being really off-pitch, which had been bothering me, too. And then I realized that most schools probably don’t have the musical training that I got here as a student of Mankai High. So, I wanted to go into music education and get a job further out in the country. Give opportunities through education to others.”

“But you’re in Veludo,” Furuichi points out.

“Yes, well, some pipe dreams stay just that. But I’m still teaching, which is nice, I think. And clearly this place isn’t the musical powerhouse it used to be, so I’m still getting to do what I wanted.”

Takato nods. “Sounds like a lot of work,” he comments.

“Oh, you’ve no idea!”

“Um, you said girlfriend?” Tsukioka pipes up. Izumi looks to him in surprise. “Like… um.”

“Like a girlfriend? Yeah.”

“Well, like, um. You know.”

“Like a girlfriend? Like a woman I was romantically involved with? Yeah.” Izumi prays that her band isn’t going to be full of judgmental kids. She’ll play nice with them regardless, but it’ll be so much easier to like them if they can just accept this one bit of personal information.

Takato clears his throat. “Good. That’s good.”

“Yeah,” Tsukioka adds quietly.

Izumi raises an eyebrow. Sakuma looks utterly confused, and Furuichi has redirected his attention to the instrument in his lap. That’s certainly an odd response to finding out their teacher’s a lesbian, she supposes.

“Well, Tsukioka-kun. You said you’d play with sheet music?”

“Oh, right! Um, I’m afraid I might not be very good.” Takato scoffs, and Tsukioka manages to blush even redder. “I’ll try my best.”

“Go for it.”

Tsukioka lifts his flute to his lips and wets them very briefly before pressing them to the mouthpiece. He takes in a breath and tries out a note. Izumi recognizes it as E flat. She waits patiently as he does a warm-up scale in E flat. Then, he begins his piece.

Against her expectations, the piece isn’t in E flat. It’s in C major, and it’s a piece that Izumi recognizes.

 _Winter Spirits_ is a beautiful flute piece. It’s riddled with thirty-second notes and juxtaposed with long, breathy dotted half notes that are meant to sound half like an unfettered wind and, interestingly enough for a piece that begins so vibrantly, half like an ominous reminder of nature’s reclamation of the decomposing. It’s not a desolate piece, but it’s one that might be better titled after autumn, in her opinion.

Tsukioka treats the piece very respectfully in his playing. He lingers on the dotted half notes an impressively short amount of time on some and a longer time on others in a pattern than isn’t marked in his sheet music, Izumi is sure. He may be humble about his skills with note improvisation, but, very clearly, he can improvise in his rhythm and emotion very well while reading.

He’s weaker on the tonality of his quicker notes, misses some of his higher register. But he makes up for it in other aspects. His fingering is impressively fast. Much like Furuichi’s playing, it’s clear that Tsukioka _knows_ his instrument.

What catches Izumi’s attention the most, however, is how still Tsukioka is in his seat. Every time that Izumi has seen this piece performed in auditions or by her classmates, the flutists in question take their time in _performing_ the piece with swaying bodily motions. The most that Tsukioka is giving her is a bow of the head whenever he enters thirty-second note territory, and most of that, she assumes, is from intense concentration on the music.

 _Winter Spirits_ ends on a very powerful trill. Tsukioka doesn’t quite have the air to punch his way out of the trill, but the trill itself is a very pretty sound, and Izumi’s curious as to why Tsukioka chose to not take the easy way out with the notes by hitting the keys hard. Instead, she barely hears the cork hit the metal of the flute as he flutters them.

“Woah,” Sakuma gushes when Tsukioka lowers the flute. “I wanna play like that with my instrument someday. How do you play so fast?”

Tsukioka smiles and rubs the back of his neck. He’s still blushing quite fiercely. “Ah, I guess it’s a matter of practice. I’m still not very good with a lot of my notes, though.”

“You don’t have to be so humble,” Izumi isn’t finished making her notes yet, so she can’t see his face, but she doesn't want him to get too bogged down by the negatives. “You have a lot of skill your middle register. And your trills are very nicely executed. My two comments would be on your air for the upper register and your performance.”

“My performance?”

“You and Furuichi-kun could both work on this, actually.” Furuichi straightens up. “If you try incorporating a bit more bodily movement in your performances, not only will the music seem to move more, but you might find it easier to keep more air in your lungs.”

Tsukioka nods slowly. “I’ll work on that in my practices.”

There’s a beat as he scribbles a note on the paper.

Takato and Furuichi practice their scales. Sakuma peers over Tsukioka’s shoulder, and Izumi shifts her weight from flat to flat. Standing is starting to hurt a little. She carries her notebook with her to the first row and sits at the edge and continues to write. They can work on the elements quiz in a few minutes.

When she looks up after said few minutes, she sees that Tsukioka is coaching Sakuma through how to hold the flute. The way the two students interact is a lovely picture of the mentor-apprentice dynamic. Distantly, she thinks it would be nice if she could get another flute to sign up. Navigating instruction alongside personal practice would likely be an effective motivator for Tsukioka.

Sakuma brings the mouthpiece to his lips, holds down the keys that would give him an F, and blows. No sound comes out. Tsukioka laughs gently at Sakuma’s dismay.

The next few days pass slowly. Izumi sees Furuichi and Takato both in her music classes and for after-school practice. She prints out training exercises for different aspects of their playing : embouchure, fingering, breathing, rhythm, etc. Furuichi works diligently with his rhythm as Takato works with his breathing exercises. Tsukioka goes through his exercises slowly : practicing his bodily movements more than the other aspects. They practice their solo and duet pieces diligently to perform on Friday.

Izumi continues to make notes. If she’s going to help them learn with their instrument, then she needs to know where they do not understand directions when given or where they fail to self-revise. So far, Tsukioka seems almost painfully aware of his every shortcoming, while Takato is too confident that his strong tone and rhythms hide his reddening face on the longer intervals between breaths (they don’t).

Sakuma bounces between Takato and Tsukioka : leaning over their shoulders and firing a barrage of questions about the marks they make on their sheet music, questions about how they manage to work some of the trickier exercises, questions about why they choose to play something differently than appears in the written music. Sakuma has the makings of a great musician. The best at anything are always those who are shameless with their questions but also have _intelligent_ questions loaded with ‘why’s.

Occasionally, Izumi plays the percussion instruments just to keep them in good condition, and Sakuma shadows her then. Today, Furuichi gravitates over to her while she’s practicing with the chimes. Furuichi’s curiosity is much more stifled than Sakuma’s, and Izumi honestly can’t tell if he follows after her out of curiosity in the other instruments or because of the crush he still has trouble hiding.

The date of the club recruitment ‘fair’ in the gymnasium is fast approaching. So far, they’ve decided that they’ll carry the different instruments that the school has to the gymnasium and arrange them out on their table and surrounding area. Takato and Tsukioka have agreed to switch in and out of playing music for background entertainment while Furuichi will help Izumi in providing explanations and demonstrations to any curious students.

She’s not sure how exactly they’ll manage to give demonstrations without completing pissing off the clubs whose tables they’ll end up neighboring, but hopefully they’ll be able to move the table a bit off to the side.

“Director?”

Izumi blinks. She looks up from the chimes to Furuichi.

“Oh, was I spacing out? I do that sometimes.”

He shifts. “I figured, yes. Um. That is,” he swallows. “Never mind.” Izumi chuckles. “I wanted to talk to you about the club recruitment fair.”

“Yeah? What’s up?”

“There’s,” a hesitation, “a slight problem.”

“Problem?” Oh god, is Takato sick? Is that why he and Tsukioka aren’t here for practice today? Will they be unable to perform tomorrow? Did an instrument get dented? “What problem?”

“There’s something that you should know about Takato-san and Tsukioka-san.”

Izumi leans back on her haunches and crosses her arms over her knees. There’s a moment before Furuichi decides to kneel on the floor beside her. It’s endearing in an odd sort of way.

“There was an incident last year with one of their friends.”

Hmm, this isn’t a great direction so far. “Okay.”

“They… their _friend_ got in some trouble last semester for,” Furuichi scowls in a very uncharacteristically furious manner. Confusion starts to seep into Izumi’s mind. “Well, administration called it indecency, but I find that a disgusting way to refer to it.”

Izumi nods slowly. “Okay?” She’s not sure she’s following.

“To put it simply, he got caught using the men’s bathroom.”

Izumi nods even more slowly. “Okay?”

“He didn't tell us that he was a guy until about three years ago.” Okay, none of this is making sense to her. “Well, not me. Takato-san and Tsukioka-san are friends with him. Well, really just Tsukioka-san. But no one else knew that he was a guy until some punk tattled on him last April. And he got in a lot of trouble. Which brought his friend group into trouble.”

“Okay?”

“So, Tsukioka-san and a few others got put under a lot of scrutiny for a bit. Rumors started to rise up about Tsukioka-san and Takato-san, especially. Since they were a part of the band, the band also got placed under that scrutiny. Chigasaki-senpai and Minagi-senpai didn’t mind, but it’s the main reason why we didn’t get any extra members last year.”

“Uh huh.”

“The first-years don’t know about any of this,” Furuichi concludes. “But the third-years definitely remember. So, I can only advise that we not try to approach any of them too directly.”

Izumi hums. “Okay. Answer me one thing.”

“What is it?”

“Why did Tsukioka-san’s friend get in trouble for using the correct bathroom?”

Furuichi’s eyes seem to harden. “Exactly the question we’d all like to know, wouldn’t we? It was _unacceptable_.”

Izumi thinks on it a little longer. _Ah_. She snaps her fingers as she hits her realization. Then, her entire face scrunches up, and the mood goes sour. Oh, that _is_ absolutely unacceptable. She has half a mind to go into the faculty room raging, but she’ll respect the student’s privacy and social well-being and leave it be. _For now_.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she reassures Furuichi. “We’re not going to let something as bigoted as that interrupt us.”

Furuichi lets out a breath. “Thank you for understanding. Takato-san and Tsukioka-san were unwilling to discuss it with anyone no matter how much I tried to convince them.”

“I hope you didn’t just tell me all of this behind their backs.”

“It needed to be said. I didn’t tell you a single thing about their personal lives.”

Izumi groans. “Kid, that’s not how you keep your friends’ trust.” Though, she can’t deny that she’s happy to have another tidbit of information on the student body here at Mankai. “Well, in any case, no one tends to come by this part of the school building. If your friend wants to use the bathrooms down here, I doubt anyone will notice him.”

A faint smile starts to flicker onto Furuichi’s stoic expression. He breaks eye contact and stares at the chimes. “I’ll pass that on to the fool.” His blush is returning.

“Is there anything else I should know before the fair?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, alright, then. I’ll go to bat for any of my band kids and their friends, alright? If anyone gets harassed like that, you come to _me_. I’ll have more than a few words with whoever’s responsible.”

Furuichi laughs. “Aren’t you just a band instructor?”

“I’m the _best_ band director, thank you very much. I don’t spoil the trumpet and flute sections.”

“We don’t even _have_ a trumpet or flute section yet. Don't make empty promises.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sakyo your crush is embarrassingggggg she's ten years older than you and a lesbian!!! Next chapter, we take follow our four band members around the school for their solos and go to the club recruitment fair. Maybe Izumi will show us her skills on the trumpet? I decided to put links to some of my favorite wind symphonic (and some orchestral) music in the notes, since I can't be a former band student without plugging music that I enjoy.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uFhPX34Q4QM&ab_channel=KatherineHoover-Topic  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1_9IMZcbKHQ&ab_channel=javedJAVEDjaved


	3. plurality, performance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> solo performances, character introductions, and the club recruitment fair. masumi, tsuzuru, and azuma formally enter the foreground with misumi and kazunari not far behind!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took much longer to write than I had hoped. I'm trying to get my chapters around the 5k-10k word mark, but grad school is *rolls eyes*
> 
> tbh the tone of this fic is becoming sth i'm trying to reconcile. i want the parts of the fic with the band itself to be light-hearted and fun with a little substance hidden between the lines while the one-on-one interactions and interactions outside of the band room to be more serious and closer to my default writing style. i finally got the chance to do a little of that at the end of this chapter, and i really look forward to writing more of it going forwards. i hope you enjoy!!
> 
> tw // mentions of xenophobia and islamophobia in restricting hijabs in Japanese schools

“Oh, Taa-chan,” Tsumugi walks up to him in the hallway holding two croissants in his hands. He eyes Tasuku’s sax, which Tasuku cradles carefully out of the way of the other students. “Why do you have your sax out for lunchtime?”

“I was going to perform a solo downstairs and advertise for the club recruitment fair.”

“Oh,” Tsumugi seems bothered by this news. Tasuku hopes it’s not going to turn into another self-pity session. “Don’t you want to eat? I bought the chocolate croissant for you specially.”

“I don’t like chocolate that much,” Tasuku hopes he isn’t blushing. He wishes Tsumugi would stop with all of these gestures. Their classmates already have plenty enough to gossip about.

“Huh?” Tsumugi blinks dumbly at him. “It’s your favorite, though?”

Tasuku sighs. Of course Tsumugi wouldn’t take the hint. “Is a croissant even enough for a lunch? Didn’t your mom pack you a bento or something like usual?”

“I didn’t want to eat too heavily since we’ll be playing at the fair after school.”

Tsumugi always played worse after a big meal. In their grade school days, he used to fast for twelve hours prior to all competitions. Except, after a fainting spell onstage in their first year of middle school, Tasuku and Tsumugi’s family have strictly maintained that Tsumugi at least eat a slice of bread and drink plenty of water. It’s a sort of jinx in Tsumugi’s eyes, Tasuku knows.

“I didn’t realize this counted as a performance.”

“Ah, well,” Tsumugi rubs the back of his neck. “It isn’t- I’m nervous, I guess, is all. Though, you never get nervous, do you, Taa-chan?”

“Don’t say it like that,” Tasuku grumbles and looks away to check the faces of the people around them. So far, most of the weird looks seem to be due to the saxophone and not Tsumugi’s words. “Aren’t you going to do any solos? Tachibana said she’d appreciate it.”

“I don’t think I could. I’m not good enough.”

“Stop doing that. You always do that.”

Tsumugi winces. “Sorry.” There’s an awkward beat. “Good luck, Tasuku. I’ll save your croissant for later, if you want it then.”

He vanishes back into their classroom, and Tasuku sighs. He wishes, not for the first time, that Tsumugi would let go of old auditions and focus on his current playing. Tasuku has heard Tsumugi play so many times since their middle school days ended. He’s heard Tsumugi build his tone and range and breathing techniques further than the average high schooler ordinarily attains.

Tsumugi is a _good_ flutist.

One day, Tsumugi will realize that. He’ll understand that the way he runs out of air when venturing into his high register is a normal occurrence amongst musicians, and he’ll understand that even professionals have days where they can’t even keep their fingerings straight. Until then, Tasuku will continue to ask Tsumugi to stop whenever Tsumugi begins down that travel-wearied road of self-lamentation.

Tasuku holds his saxophone close to his body as he walks through the hallways and dodges the rowdier students. The best place for him to gain an audience at this time of day is in the courtyard on the first floor, where a lot of the first and second years like to have lunch. He gets halfway down the staircase when someone joins him at the side.

“Tasuku,” Yukishiro smiles and hooks an arm through the crook of Tasuku’s elbow. “Where might you be going with such a thing at lunchtime? Shouldn’t you be eating with dear Tsumugi-kun?”

“Hands off.”

“Hmm, so we’re in a bad mood today?” Yukishiro does let go, though. He files behind Tasuku to avoid the rush of students coming up the stairs in the opposite direction. When Tasuku ignores him, there’s a soft tap on his shoulder blade. “Ignoring people is rude, you know.”

“I’m doing a solo in the courtyard. Director Tachibana wants us to advertise for the club recruitment fair after school.”

“Oh, is that it? I wondered why Sakyo-kun was playing such an alluring solo the last few mornings from the band wing.”

Yukishiro can’t see his face, so Tasuku takes full advantage of his freedom to roll his eyes. Find a day where Yukishiro _wasn’t_ trying to flirt with Furuichi or Tasuku. The only thing saving Yukishiro’s skin is the sheer number of girls he also flirts with even though Tasuku knows the guy has absolutely no interest in them beyond their skincare routines and general amicability.

“So, is this ‘Director Tachibana’ the new music instructor? She’s young, isn’t she? I heard from my little birdies in the trees that she’s quite beautiful.”

“You’re asking the wrong guy,” Tasuku laughs. They take a turn through the first-years hall. “I guess she’s pretty? Not sure what high collars and brown hair is doing for those guys, though.”

“Oh, does she dress very conservatively?”

“Define conservatively. She doesn’t dress like many other teachers, I guess.”

“How interesting. Are you band kids going to leave me for her?”

“Furuichi might, actually.”

There’s a beat where Yukishiro doesn’t immediately respond. Tasuku wonders if Yukishiro’s actually bothered by the idea of that. It’s not often that he isn’t silver-tongued, but Tasuku can’t imagine why this would throw him off. He keeps walking, though, and Yukishiro stays just behind him.

“How unfortunate,” Yukishiro finally remarks. “I was getting rather attached to that cutie’s resistance to my affections.” They make their way out into the courtyard. “So, Tsumugi-kun isn’t playing with you?”

“He’s resting for now.”

“Hmm, resting?”

“He’s nervous about playing at the club recruitment fair.”

“How sweet of him. And you’re not upstairs with him, offering consolation and encouragement? That’s not how you keep a boyfriend, Tasuku.”

Tasuku cuts Yukishiro down with a glare. They’re in the middle of the courtyard, for God’s sake. Does he just not understand common decency? Does he not remember what happened with Homare last year?

“You can’t just say that kind of stuff, Yukishiro. You know Tsumugi and I aren’t like that.”

“Sorry, sorry. I simply find you two cute.”

Tasuku huffs. “Just keep it down with that kind of talk. I don’t want people harassing us again.” He wets his reed and doesn’t miss how attached Yukishiro’s eyes are to the motion. He turns away in embarrassment.

“What’ll you be playing this afternoon?”

“Whatever comes to mind, I guess.”

“Oh, improvisation. That’s a very attractive skill, you know. I wonder how many first-year girls will come over to introduce themselves.”

Tasuku really hopes that won’t end up happening. A few he can handle, but he really hates trying to be nice to every girl who comes up to him in the hopes of securing a new boyfriend. Maybe one day he’ll finally have a girl come up just to talk about music.

He adjusts the reed into the mouthpiece and tightens it down.

“Alright, well, you can watch, I guess, but don’t do anything weird.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Yukishiro asks him with a coy smile.

Tasuku fights back the blush he knows is coming and wets the reed one last time before starting to play.

Sakyo pauses in the hallway when his ears catch the distinct sound of a saxophone from outside the windows. A few other students pause too, and they crowd the windows in mild curiosity to see the source of the music. It’s Takato, Sakyo knows, and he keeps walking.

He’s a little surprised that Takato’s playing during the school day. For the last three days, they’ve been keeping their performances to the band wing and school gate before and after school. Takato is the more confident of the two of them, so he’s been a good bit more dutiful about his responsibilities than Sakyo. But Sakyo knows that Takato dislikes getting hit on by curious eyes and hearts.

Sakyo thinks about whether or not he wants to eat lunch. His step-sister’s bento are very nice, but he’s feeling the band room more than he is his lunch today. Maybe he’ll just eat in the band room and combine the two. He starts up the stairwell to the third floor. He passes a kid that a spitting image of Minagi on the way up and glances over his shoulder once he passes. So, Minagi’s kid brother was indeed a first-year now. Hopefully, Minagi will keep his word about hassling the kid into joining the band.

As Sakyo nears the band corridor, the crowds of students begin to dissipate. The band corridor doesn’t share its space with any other classrooms, for the most part, though the science labs are on the other side of the building across the outdoor walkway. This has obvious advantages to those who prefer a bit of peace and quiet (Sakyo) but disadvantages to those who hope to attract new students (Tachibana).

Sakyo pulls the door to the band room open. “Excuse the interruption.”

Tachibana looks up from the makeshift desk she’s crafted next to the chalkboard. A sushi roll is balanced between hot pink chopsticks : halfway to her mouth. “Ah, Furuichi-kun. Are you eating lunch here?”

“I was going to,” Sakyo closes the door and approaches the chairs. “Is that alright with you?”

“Of course! It’s kind of lonely eating alone in here.”

“You could eat in the faculty room,” Sakyo teases. He feels his heart speed up a little when she rolls her eyes and waves a hand dismissively while sporting a small grin. It feels good to be a source of happiness.

“Please. Those people are too stuffy for me. I’d rather eat in my classroom.”

Sakyo smiles. This is much better than Hamamoto-sensei last year, who had thought himself too good to teach music at a school like Mankai. He takes off the lid of his bento and picks up his chopsticks.

“Cute bento,” Tachibana compliments. “Your mom’s?”

“My step-sister’s.”

“Oh, nice! I always used to just buy something on the way to school at the station. I wonder if those places are still there.”

“Which one did you go to?”

“Uhhhhh, Sunshine… something?”

“Sunshine Snacks? Yeah, it’s still there.”

Tachibana pumps a fist in the air as if this news personally rewards her. “Hey, that’s neat! It’s been eight years, after all.”

Sakyo does the mental math quickly. He feels his ears burn. He hadn’t been aware that she was around twenty-six. She looks a bit younger than that : maybe twenty-three? He busies himself by eating his omelette roll.

The door to the band room slides open. “Furuichi-san! I didn’t expect to see you here!” Sakyo hides a sigh. He doesn’t want to share his personal Tachibana time with anyone else, let alone a loud first-year.

“Hey,” Tachibana greets Sakuma. “You here for lunch, too?”

“No, actually! Tasuku’s playing his sax in the courtyard! We should all go watch. Maybe we can advertise our club table.”

Tachibana finishes chewing her sushi roll. “Is he with Tsukioka-kun, too?”

“Ah, no, I didn’t see Tsumugi-senpai there.”

“Tsukioka’s too embarrassed to play in front of people like that,” Sakyo tells her. “He’s not exactly the most confident member of the band.”

Tachibana nods slowly. She has her thinking face on, and it worries Sakyo a little. He hopes his lunchtime isn’t about to be dismantled.

“Well, I think I’ll go down and play with him a bit. It’s out last chance to advocate for the band table, after all.”

“What?”

Tachibana offers him a disproving look, and Sakyo feels properly admonished. He’s about to say sorry, but she moves right on, “Give me a minute to brush my teeth, and I’ll break out my trumpet.”

“Brush your teeth?” Sakuma asks.

“Yeah. Don’t wanna get rice and fish bits stuck in my instrument.”

Sakuma and Sakyo scrunch up their faces in disgust at the same time, and Tachibana laughs jubilantly. She snaps the lid on her sushi and picks it up. She bends under the desk for a second and then pops back up : hands empty.

“Do you have a _fridge_ under your desk?”

Tachibana fishes a toothbrush container and toothpaste roll out of her purse. “What? You think I’m _not_ going to utilize my space to its fullest potential?”

Sakyo stares in disbelief well after she’s left the room for the bathrooms. He supposes there are more benefits to the band room being so far away from the rest of the school than he initially thought. He wonders if he can bribe Tachibana into letting him use her fridge, too. Maybe she’ll accept free sushi on Tuesdays in compensation? He wonders if he can afford the expense with his current allowance. Maybe he’ll try to take on extra chores around the house and get a little extra pocket change.

“Being a band director must be so cool,” Sakuma sighs.

Sakyo privately agrees. Aloud, he says, “They’re not usually like that.”

“Are they usually strict like the other teachers?”

“In my experience? Even more so.”

Sakuma’s cheer falls a bit. He moves over to the chairs and takes a seat near Sakyo. He peers at Sakyo’s bento. “Oh, that looks nice. Did you buy it from that store at the station? Sunny Food?”

“Sunshine Snacks.” Honestly, this kid. “And, no, my step-sister makes my lunches for me usually.”

“Oh.” Sakuma eyes his bento with a weird look then. “Is your step-sister really nice?”

“I guess. She’s a lot older than me, though.”

“Oh.”

Sakyo awkwardly lowers his chopsticks. His appetite is vanishing, and a weird feeling like guilt is churning in his stomach. Maybe it’s the look in Sakuma’s eyes. “You, uh, have a nice family?”

Sakuma blinks. He looks up. “I live with relatives, actually!” He laughs a little bit. “Right now, I’m living with my dad’s sister and her family.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah, I’ve kind of moved between my relatives since elementary school. It’s hard to look after kids that aren’t your own, you know? But they’re all really nice people! I… enjoy living with them.”

Sakyo feels the guilt churn in his stomach all the more violently. He’s not sure what to say, exactly. He’s never had to deal with a conversation quite like this before. Though, he supposes, Yukishiro’s home life isn’t _too_ far off the mark.

So, he says to Sakuma what he once said to Yukishiro. “What’s at home isn’t your only family, you know. I’m sure you have other people that care for you.”

Sakuma frowns. His thinking face is eerily similar to Tachibana’s. “The director's is really nice, isn’t she? I kind of wish she was my mom, you know?”

Sakyo does not know. He’d much rather be a little older or her a little younger and have something like dating on the table rather than learning and teaching. But, he supposes, it’s similar enough. He nods awkwardly. “Sure.”

Sakuma smiles. Sakyo considers this a good conversation.

Tachibana swings back into the room. “Okay, kids! If anyone wants to hear what a professional trumpeter sounds like, line right on up!”

“You mean what a twenty-six-year-old trumpeter sounds like,” Sakyo teases. He closes his bento case. He’s absolutely coming along. “Sounds tedious.”

“Twenty-seven, thank you very much. I have a late March birthday. Always was the oldest in my year.”

Sakyo feels his face burn. Sakuma, blissfully unaware to Sakyo’s hang-ups, walks right up to Tachibana and offers to carry her trumpet. As she’s turning down the offer and starting a conversation about the school week with the kid, Sakyo stands up and straightens his uniform.

They get to the courtyard after suffering more than what’s an appropriate amount of staring : mostly from hormone-driven dudes ogling Tachibana and subsequently getting the death glare from Sakyo. He’s pretty sure that Tachibana notices it, too, but isn’t in a position to really chew them out for disrespect considering she isn’t following the faculty dress code.

Then again, Sakyo’s certain that Tachibana would rather eat her own trumpet than wear button-ups and pencil skirts because some school dress code told her so.

Takato is still playing in the courtyard when they reach the threshold to outside. A few students have begun hanging out of the first and second floor windows to listen. A small crowd of girls sit at the table closest to Takato. Another group of boys sit further away, eyeing Takato with clear distaste. More mixed groups of students either ignore or politely listen to the music.

Then, Sakyo catches sight of Yukishiro reclining on the grass – looking up at Takato with a soft and admiring expression – and he immediately feels that he should get back to the band wing in as absolutely little time as possible. He’s three steps in retreat when he hears the click of an instrument case and pauses.

Tachibana unlocks her trumpet case in the doorway, gaining a bit of attention from the few people nearest to her. Sakuma hovers close to her shoulder.

Tachibana’s trumpet is... Sakyo considers the tight bundle of emotions in his throat when he looks upon the well-polished, well-oiled ivory valves and gleaming, silver metal. It catches the light in every angle and scatters it brilliantly in little flecks of white confetti all along the walls and bodies near it. Tachibana closes a hand around the first valve and pinky holder and lifts the trumpet out from its black, velvet cushioning.

She places her index, middle, and ring fingers on the keys and plays with them a little in odd patterns. They glide smoothly : near perfectly. They curl to rest loosely on top. She fiddles with her valves and pulls one out minutely to fine-tune.

Sakyo feels his feet take root. Tachibana with her trumpet is too awe-inspiring a sight to leave, and he doesn’t remember why he had thought to flee in the first place, anymore.

Tachibana slides the mouthpiece into the trumpet. The metallic clang is barely audible over Takato’s bold playing style.

Then, she takes a few steps outside the door and, as Takato slows down his playing for a small break from his earlier, tricky rhythms, the clear, brass ringing of the trumpet joins the breathier music of the saxophone.

Takato’s eyes snap to where Tachibana stands, and there’s a moment before he dips his head low while still holding his note. Tachibana walks forward out to join him.

They start up a duet together. For a bit, Tachibana takes the reins and works her way through arpeggios that show off a flashy capability for embouchure work in her bouncing between the upper registers of the trumpet’s range. Takato takes the opportunity to regain his breath, wipe his hands of sweat, and play supporting melody. But they switch in and out after a small recovery time, and Sakyo realizes that he recognizes the tune from a popular movie that released last summer.

The students seem to recognize the theme, too, because a few more smiles blossom at the musical shift.

“Takato-senpai’s really good, isn’t he?” Sakuma says.

Sakyo had forgotten about the kid again. He grunts. “He’s skilled because he puts a lot of time and effort into it. We should all strive to do the same.”

“The director’s even better, though.”

“That’s what music school does to you, ideally.”

They listen to the duet some more. The crowd dissipates somewhat with time : the novelty of an impromptu performance and duet wearing off to those uninterested in music or busy with schoolwork. True, the end of the lunch period is closing in on them. Sakyo checks his watch. Nine minutes to go.

Tachibana seems to pick up on this, too. She starts an _al coda_ that Takato immediately matches, and they end the song. Takato breaks away to gasp in heaving pants of air, but Tachibana is relatively unaffected. Even from this distance, Sakyo hears her joyous laugh as she pats Takato on the back.

“Furuichi-senpai!” Sakyo glances at Sakuma. “Let’s go join them.”

Sakyo sniffs but allows himself to be dragged by the kid into the courtyard.

“That was amazing!” Sakuma immediately begins gushing, and he crowds Takato and his saxophone. “You just knew what each other was going to do and could match it perfectly! And you didn’t have any sheet music! How long does it take to get that good?”

Tachibana smiles, and Sakyo’s curious to hear her response, but he’s uncomfortably distracted by an all-too familiar hand on his shoulder.

“Sakyo-kun,” Yukishiro hums a greeting that’s too close to Sakyo’s ear for comfort. He stumbles a step back. Yukishiro watches him with a mirthful twinkle in his eyes that Sakyo doesn’t trust. “How lovely to see you today. I almost feel you’ve been avoiding me lately.”

“I wonder why,” Sakyo grumbles.

“Even colder than Tasuku, you are.”

“What are you doing here?” Sakyo tries to redirect the conversation. “Don’t you usually eat your lunch in the classroom?”

Yukishiro laughs. “How kind of you to pay such close attention to my habits.” Sakyo feels himself flush. “I had the luck to pass by Tasuku in the hallway earlier today. I simply thought I’d accompany him on his little performance. As moral support, of course.”

“Moral support?” Sakyo scoffs at the idea.

“Well, there are other aspects, too, I can admit. Like seeing a man-”

“Alright, I don’t want to hear it.”

Yukishiro smiles as if this response amuses him greatly. Whatever he’s about to say, if he’s about to say anything, is interrupted by Takato nudging Yukishiro’s shoulder.

“Yukishiro, help me clean the sax. We only have a few minutes.”

“Ah, to be treated like a doting housewife,” Yukishiro hums merrily and accepts the sax and the polishing rag that Takato hands him. “It’s such a lovely feeling.” Takato rolls his eyes as he cleans the mouthpiece.

Tachibana has dissembled her trumpet, too, and laid it to rest in its case.

“Hopefully, that will gain us a few more attendees at our table,” Sakyo comments.

Tachibana glances up. “Oh, for sure! That sounded pretty good! If only you and Tsukioka-kun could have joined in. But we have time for that later!”

Privately, Sakyo doesn’t think that Tachibana will be able to coax Tsukioka into playing as anything other than background for a while. He’s still a little surprised that Tsukioka agreed to switch out with Takato for playing in the gymnasium after school, actually.

“Do you know him?”

Sakyo frowns in confusion. He’s about to ask Tachibana who she means, but he notices that she’s not looking at him anymore. Instead, she’s looking just a little higher than his left shoulder at the school building. Sakyo turns around.

The ‘him’ in question is a first-year leaning on the windowsill of his classroom, still watching them even though they’ve long since stopped playing now. To be accurate, Sakyo realizes with distaste, he’s still watching _Tachibana_ even though she’s long since stopped playing.

“No idea. Probably just another first-year brat.”

“Furuichi-kun! You shouldn’t talk about potential members like that.” Tachibana bites her lip. “I’m going to go introduce myself. Sakuma-kun, you come with us.”

“Okay!”

“Us?”

Tachibana levels Sakyo with a disproving frown. “Tough it out, Furuichi-kun. I can still make you clean the band room top to bottom whenever I like.”

Sakyo grimaces. “Fine.”

They leave Yukishiro and Takato behind – a risky move that Sakyo’s sure will earn them Takato’s cold shoulder for a bit – and move over to the window and the first-year.

Sakyo’s not sure he likes this new kid. He’s leaning out the window far too much to be regular interest, and Sakyo can see white earbuds half-hiding in his collar. Earbuds aren’t permitted on the school grounds except for computer classes.

“Um, excuse me,” Tachibana tries. “Are you interested, maybe, in joining band?”

The kid stares at her. “Are you in band?”

“Well, I’d like to think so. I’m the band director, after all. Tachibana Izumi : it’s nice to meet you!”

The kid blushes. “U-Usui Masumi.”

Sakyo decides he definitely doesn’t like this kid.

“Do you play any instruments, Usui-kun?”

“Piano.”

“Ah, just piano?” Usui nods.

“You also play bugel really well, though!” Sakuma pipes up, and Sakyo whips his head around. The little pink thing _knows_ this creep? “Remember back in our field trip in fifth grade? You played that really well! Everyone was so jealous.”

Usui eyes Sakuma like house cats eye particularly annoying canaries. “I don’t remember that.”

“What? We went to elementary school together? Sakure Elementary? We were in the same class for our last year!”

“Christ, kid,” Tachibana sighs, “how do you still remember all that?”

“I remember faces well!”

Usui’s expression doesn’t particularly change. “There might have been something along those lines in the past. Still don’t remember the bugel.”

Tachibana sighs again. “Am I just getting old? I don’t remember anything from my elementary school days.”

“Hag,” Sakyo jokes.

Tachibana shoots him a dirty glare. “Alright, Furuichi-kun. You’re cleaning the band room after school today.”

Sakyo is not going to argue against getting to spend more time under her supervision. He preens a little and enjoys the new expression of jealousy on Usui’s face. Then, he thinks about cleaning dust bunnies from underneath the grand piano, and the pride vanishes a bit.

“In any case, Usui-kun, you’re welcome to join the band club! Don’t worry about being a beginner. Sakuma-kun here doesn’t have any experience either! We’re all here to learn.”

“I’ll be better than him,” Usui says suddenly, and Sakyo watches Tachibana’s cheer falter for a second.

“Um, it’s not a competition or anythi- What are you doing?!”

Usui climbs out the window and lands in the courtyard grass. Sakyo genuinely thinks he might have to fight the kid if he tries to do something in the next few seconds to the Director. Sure enough, the kid takes a step forward, and Sakyo matches that step.

“Woah, woah, time out!” Tachibana throws her arms out to hold them both apart. “No fighting! This is a high school. We behave like respectable almost-adults.”

“Almost-adults?” Sakyo sneers.

“I’m practically an adult already,” Usui brags.

Sakyo clenches his fists. “I’m two years older than you, runt.”

“No fighting!” Now Tachibana’s mostly just holding Usui back.

“I’ll join the band,” Usui declares. “I’ll be your best musician. I’ll play any instrument you’d like me to.”

“Uh.”

“That’s great, Masumi-kun!” Sakuma cheers. “I look forward to playing with you! You should come to the band club’s table after-school today, too! We can-”

Usui turns to Tachibana and cuts Sakuma off with, “Will you be there?”

“Me? Uh, well, yeah, I’m the supervisor.”

“I’ll go.”

Sakuma cheers again and dives deep into chatter. Usui only seems to half-listen to him.

Tachibana leans back towards Sakyo. “I’m going to end up regretting this, aren’t I?”

“Don’t ask me.”

It’s in the lull of listening to Sakuma’s chatter that the bell to start fifth period rings. And it’s at that point that the four of them freeze where they stand. Sakyo looks over his shoulder to where Takato and Yukishiro _should_ be waiting for them, only to find that they’ve long since bailed. Those traitors.

Izumi ends up sending emails to Sakuma-kun and Furuichi-kun’s teachers, apologizing profusely for keeping their students longer than their lunch period allowed. The responses she gets are less than cordial, if one reads between the lines, and she’s finally learned the correct name of her old calculus teacher : Yamashita. Not that his email had been particularly forgiving.

She leans back in her desk chair and sighs. There’s still five minutes until the bell rings to dismiss classes for the day, and then her and the kids will have to lug down to the gymnasium all sorts of instruments. Get a table, lay the instruments out, stack their flyers (made by Furuichi-kun), and set to advertising once the students arrive. She can’t focus on the quiz she’s supposed to be grading.

She doesn’t _want_ to, either. Nanao from her fourth period class might be good with the recorder and harmonica and piano, but his music history quiz scores are… well, she’s a professional academic who won’t badmouth her students. But they’re horrible, really.

She sets down her red pen, which is getting dangerously low on ink for it only being the first week of classes, and sighs again. Maybe sneaking a candy bar from her mini-fridge will set her mood better. But she also doesn’t want to brush her teeth _again_ before the instrument demonstrations, so she refrains.

Instead, she gets up and moves over to the percussion section.

Originally, she hadn’t been thinking of taking any percussion instruments down to the gym with them. They’re bulky and annoying, and she’s not incredibly skilled with them, either. Besides, the only ones that are easy enough to move are the handhelds, and she doubts that a demonstration with a triangle will be enough to convince anyone to join band.

She pokes around the instruments that they could feasibly move down to the gym and ends up with a pitiful selection of the clappers, the finger cymbals, the bongo, and the triangle. Maybe she should bite the bullet and assign someone to roll the xylophone down and take the elevator.

The bell rings.

Izumi groans. She takes the triangle in its holder and replaces the rest of the instruments in their cubicles along the back wall. Then, there’s the realization that she needs to put her grading away in a folder before the students show up to help. God knows she doesn’t want to get in _more_ trouble today.

It’s when she’s putting the manila folder into her filing cabinet that the band room’s door slides open.

“Director,” Tsukioka’s voice greets.

“Hey, kid.” Izumi locks the cabinet and turns around. She blinks at the brunette hovering behind Tsukioka. “Oh, who’s this? A new member?”

Tsukioka smiles. “This is Minagi’s little brother Tsuzuru-kun. He’s a first-year.”

“Oh, that’s great! Please, just call me Director.”

“Uh, yeah,” Minagi replies with a slight bow. “Meguru told me that the band didn’t have many members and kinda arm-wrestled me into joining. I wasn’t super excited about, but I heard your duet in the courtyard during lunch, and it kind of got me interested.”

“Thanks!” Izumi chirps. She’s happy that someone took a _normal_ interest in her and Takato’s playing. “I’ve heard a lot about you Minagis. Are you really all into music performance and education?”

“Uh, most of us, yeah.”

“And you play?”

“Trumpet, ma’am.”

“Oof. Just call Director, really.”

“I’ll never understand your obsession with that,” Furuichi sighs as he enters the room. He eyes Minagi with a scrutinizing eye. “Is this the Minagi kid? Kinda…” There’s a pause, and the pressure Izumi’s sending him must curb his tongue a little because he finishes with a mere, “average.”

“Huh?” Minagi asks.

Izumi claps her hands. “Okay! It’s great that we have a new member! But we need to focus on setting up our table quickly for the club fair. We’re expecting Takato-kun and Sakuma-kun to come, too, right?” She waits for Tsukioka and Furuichi to nod. “Great, then I think we’ll be good in splitting up our tasks.”

“What would you like us to do?” Tsukioka offers kindly.

“You’re responsible and sweet, so I can trust you to sweet-talk your way into borrowing a table from the drama department and taking it to the gym.”

“Understood.” He smiles kindly once again at Minagi and heads out the door in pursuit of his task.

“And the rest of us?” Furuichi asks.

Izumi grins. “To the instrument storage room!”

She takes the lead out of the room and hears Minagi mutter, “Weird cheer but okay.”

The instrument storage room is less a _room_ per say and more a conglomeration of a few spots where students and staff have clearly shoved instrument cases for convenience throughout the years. There is the proper instrument storage room, of course, with its (dusty) shelves and old instrument cases that haven’t been played in seemingly years. There’s also, however, the weird nook in the hallway where some instruments and a few chairs are shoved next to a whiteboard and mini bookshelf. There’s also the janitor’s closet that doesn’t seem to have any janitorial supplies and instead houses a very ominous-looking assortment of percussion, plus an inexplicable oboe case just lying on the floor : missing half the oboe pieces.

Izumi’s not sure how one loses just _half_ an oboe. If she were teaching elementary school, she supposes, it could be fun to spin a tale of ‘music gnomes’ stealing instrument pieces if you forgot to close your instrument cases, but alas.

She takes them to the proper instrument storage room and props the door open before she sets to opening all the windows. It may be still a bit nippy outside for it being early April, but it’s better than having them all tear up and cough from the dust bunnies.

Minagi starts coughing as soon as he sets foot in the room.

“Alright, kids,” Izumi huffs with the last window. “You’re all pretty familiar with band, then. Just one of each major instrument should do. Flute, clarinet, sax, trumpet, trombone, you get the idea. If you play a particular instrument, you can just bring yours down and forget about the school’s.”

Furuichi moves over to the clarinet cases.

“Minagi-kun,” Izumi asks, “which instrument do you play?”

“Oh, uh, trumpet. Like half of my brothers play trumpet, and we all take turns on the family one.”

“That sounds… like it could be a bit hectic.”

“Director, you’ve no idea.”

Izumi hides a smile and lets Minagi go over to the trumpets. While she could theoretically play at the table, she’s far more interested in seeing Minagi’s capabilities first.

The idea of having so many siblings intrigues her. She was always alone growing up, in a certain sense, since being an only child usually meant – for her at least – not getting as many invites to parties. The exceptions, of course, were her friends and the occasional crush she pursued. But to have a busy household with more than just a mother and daughter getting by, she can’t imagine it.

She wonders how many groceries Minagi’s mother must have to buy to be able to feed all of family. She wonders how much money the parents must sink into high school (and perhaps college) for their kids. Her mom certainly had worked two jobs just to support her through music school, and Izumi had worked then, too, to cover other expenses that arose.

She opens a euphonium case and eyes the instrument. It looks in good enough shape. She slides the mouthpiece in and, with a prayer that the last person to play this washed it before putting it away, tries out a few notes. It’s not the best, but it works, and she can tune it later downstairs if anyone seems interested enough in the thing. She sets it back down.

“Director,” Sakuma announces as he comes in through the door. “I brought Masumi-kun with me!”

Izumi offers a weak smile. “Great! You can both help out, then.” She points to the horn case that Furuichi had checked. “Usui-kun, could you carry the horn for us? And Sakuma-kun, I’ll entrust the clarinet to you.”

Sakuma near-lunges for the clarinet case in excitement. Usui’s energy towards the French horn is notably lacking.

“I think we’re done,” Furuichi pipes up. “Are we taking a piccolo or any percussion?”

“I got the percussion,” Izumi takes the triangle out of her pocket and gives it a wave. She doesn’t miss the way Furuichi barely manages to suppress a bark of laughter. “And Usui-kun can carry the piccolo, too, I suppose.”

“What’s the case look like?”

Izumi snatches the piccolo case from the flute shelf and holds it out for Usui to take. “It doesn’t weigh much, so it shouldn’t be too much a bother.”

Usui takes the piccolo from her and pauses a moment before frowning at how lightweight the case is. He then shrugs and heads out the door.

“Takato-kun didn’t come. I wonder if he’s still coming.”

“He probably ran into Tsukioka downstairs,” Furuichi grumbles. “I wouldn’t worry about those two.”

Izumi supposes that’s fair.

“Are we going yet?” Usui calls from the hallway.

Izumi sits quietly in her seat behind the band table. Takato’s solo in the back corner of the gym is calm and perfect for background nose – a jazzy kind of swing tame enough to sound like it belongs in a warm café rather than a gym full of high schoolers. Sakuma has been inviting people right and left to take a look at their table. Tsukioka and Furuichi stand with their instruments.

And not a single person has stopped by yet.

Izumi wonders if, in a past life, she had been some horrible kind of murderer or corrupt politician. What else would reward all of their hard work in performing around the school with this kind of show-up? Maybe she should retire at age twenty-seven and go on benefits.

“You know,” she mentions to Tsukioka, “I’m not sure this is working.”

He chuckles. “We are the black sheep of the clubs. I suppose it makes sense in a way. But I guess we had all hoped that the stigma had worn off a bit by now.”

Izumi hums. She glances over her shoulder to where Minagi is starting to set up his music on a stand and get out his trumpet. He’ll play with Takato for a few minutes before Takato will switch out with Tsukioka.

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” Tsukioka continues. “We’ve already recruited three people just by lucky meetings and random chance. I’m sure we’ll recruit a few more people like that as the spring goes on. And six is always better than three, even if we don’t get anyone else.”

Izumi agrees with him in theory, but they’ll never get a chance to perform on a stage with these kinds of numbers. She thinks she owes it to the third-years, at the very least, to give them one performance before they graduate and go off with their lives.

“Oh!” a voice startles her, and she and Tsukioka jump a little.

A kid with long, light hair and jewelry and a shayla that she’s honestly surprised made it past the very xenophobic and racist policies of school dress code at this school (and most others) stands very close to Sakuma and looks down at his flyers.

“A Mankai Aquarium? How wonderful.”

_Aquarium?_

“Uh,” is all Izumi can manage.

“But all I see are instruments,” the kid frowns. “How is this an aquarium club? Where are the blowfish?!”

“Um,” Tsukioka tries, “I think you may be confusing ‘aquarium’ with ‘wind symphonic.’ We’re a band club.”

“Oh, that makes sense! Thank you.” They come over closer to the instruments. “What sorts of music do you often play?”

“Um, it’s not really any set genre yet,” Izumi explains. “For now, we’re just collecting members, and the next few weeks we’ll be going over basics for incoming members.”

Another kid gravitates over : a pretty boy archetype that Izumi instantly recognizes. He hovers close to the other kid’s shoulder and peers down at the table.

“Band club?” he asks.

“Itaru! You should join with me! Please? Please? Please?” The boy’s mouth is set in a tight line as he shakes his head in the negative. The kid gasps. “No! Itaru, you must join with me! We can play together.”

“Too much work.”

“But it will be fun to play together! Don’t Japanese elementary students play some instruments in elementary school? You must know how to play an instrument. You can play that!”

Itaru eyes the table again warily. “We’re only taught a handful,” he mutters. “None of these.”

“Some instruments are easier to pick up than others,” Izumi reassures. “I’ve seen a lot of beginners really struggle with clarinet, for example, whereas the flutes and trumpets tend to be easier instruments in the beginning.”

The boy doesn’t seem convinced. “How long are your practices?”

“Uh,” Izumi glances to Furuichi. He shrugs, the unhelpful brat. Then again, she’s _sure_ that Furuichi would do anything to keep these two out of the club if he could help it. “We don’t really have strict schedules yet. But learning an instrument takes time, so it’ll definitely be for at least thirty minutes every day after school in the beginning and more later in the school year.”

“What about days off? I’m sick, you see, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to stay after-school every day like that. I have to go home and take a nap often.”

“Uh, well, you’re of course still welcome in the band! We won’t force you to do anything you feel incapable of doing, for whatever reason. Besides, of course, improving in your skills!”

“Oh, please, Itaru?” The kid in the shayla tugs on the boy’s sleeve.

The boy sighs. “I’ll think about it.”

“You might find yourself looking forward to it more if you have an instrument you’d like to play already in mind,” Tsukioka suggests. “I only got into band after I fell in love with the flute.”

“My sister played the trumpet last year,” he muses. “Maybe I’ll just go with that.”

“Wait,” Furuichi cuts in. “Chigasaki-senpai was your older sister? Emika-senpai?”

A sigh. “Yeah. I’m her little brother Chigasaki Itaru.”

“She never mentioned a little brother.”

“Yeah, well,” Chigasaki shrugs. “She’s an absolute menace.”

“I’m Citron!” the other kid introduces themself jubilantly. “I come from the country of Zahra, and I am in an exchange program! I have been in Japan for a year now!”

“Oh, that’s lovely,” Tsukioka enthuses. “One of my friends’ parents travel there frequently.”

“Zahra is a lovely country! We have many spies!”

“Um.”

“Spices,” Chigasaki clarifies.

Izumi watches as an impressively tall student with purple hair takes a pamphlet from Sakuma and walks away wordlessly. She’s not sure what to say to that, either. She vaguely aware that Takato’s stopped playing and that Minagi is still going, which means that Takato will be joining them at the table soon.

“Think on it over the weekend,” she encourages the pair. “We look forward to seeing you after school on Monday in the band room.”

“We will be there!” Citron smiles brightly and takes two of the pamphlets, shoving them to Chigasaki to hold.

“No promises,” Chigasaki follows it up with, and the two promptly vacate the table.

Izumi blinks a few times. Huh.

Takato appears by Tsukioka’s shoulder. “They looked weird.”

“We don’t judge by appearances,” Izumi retorted. “But, yeah, they were kind of… unpredictable.”

“Call it what you want, I guess.”

Izumi slumps back in her seat. A red-haired kid takes a pamphlet from Tsukioka with a bright smile and wave. Only Sakuma, Izumi, and Tsukioka return it.

By the time the club recruitment fair is over, it’s five in the evening and Izumi really wants to go home and get drive-thru takeout on the way home. There’s no way she’s cooking tonight, even if she’s really craving a warm plate of curry to placate her mental exhaustion.

After Takato rejoined them at the table, a few groups of girls had come up asking questions – mostly flirting. A few of them had eyed the flutes and clarinets with something akin to passing interest. Sakuma collected the attention of a few second-years who entertained his enthusiasm with their patient and amused attention. And, all the while, Tsukioka laughed and teased Takato for his every suitor.

Whatever their relationship was, it was a sweet thing to watch. Even if Furuichi had made a few disparaging comments about ‘lovebirds’ in the meantime.

But now, they have to go through the exhausting task of cleaning everything up and lugging the instruments back to the faraway, third floor band hall. Izumi snaps the French horn case shut and sighs.

Tsukioka glances up from where he cleans his flute beside her. “Tired, Director?”

“You’ve no idea, kid. I may have never rested for a moment in college, but at least I could do my work at home.”

“I actually prefer being around others,” Tsukioka hums. He wraps the spit rag around his cleaning rod and slides it into the head of his flute. “I try to study in coffee shops when I have a lot of homework.” He laughs. “Although, it makes my allowance dry up pretty quickly.”

“You’re the type to study in the library, I see.”

“Probably.”

“Director,” Izumi looks to Sakuma. “Masumi-kun and I are going to get a head start on carrying some instruments upstairs. Is it okay if we shelve them ourselves?”

“Yeah, that should be fine. Just try to put them back where we got them earlier today.”

“Understood!”

Izumi and Tsukioka watch the two first-years exit the gymnasium. There’s a beat of silence as Tsukioka folds up his spit rag and places the flute head down into his case. Izumi closes the euphonium case.

“I think we have a lot to look forward to this year,” Tsukioka says, then.

Izumi nods. “Yeah.” Three guaranteed new members and at least two potential members isn’t a bad start.

Tsukioka closes his flute case. It’s a cute thing with a zipper rather than a latch : something that would have garnered a fair amount of jealousy in Izumi’s time in a high school band. Zippered cases were the enviable style back then.

She looks out at the other clubs’ tables. The only other clubs that seem as small as theirs are the Photography-Art Club and Theatre Club in the opposite corner of the gym. She supposes that Mankai High just isn’t the creative arts powerhouse it once was anymore. She spots Matsukawa over at the Theatre Club, worrying over a list of table visitors (she’s going to assume) with a tall and dark third-year at his side : probably their president.

The Photography-Art table has Miyoshi from her fourth period course, and she’s really trying to avoid any unnecessary interaction with the kid, so she keeps her eyes firmly averted from their spot.

“Oh, Fushimi, I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought you usually went home early.”

Izumi turns to find a new kid at their table : one of the boys who had been helping out at the Soccer Club’s table. He’s tall and has a scar that no boy his age should really have, and – more importantly – he seems to be on friendly terms with Takato.

“Yeah, Coach said we were low on hands for the table, and I hate not helping out when help’s needed,” Fushimi shrugs with a bashful smile. “I guess I could say the same to you. You’re not usually one for fanservice.”

Tsukioka giggles at the word, and Takato shoots them both exasperated looks.

“How’s the Soccer Club treating you?” Tsukioka asks. “I remember Tasuku said you guys were having a bit of a rough time. Is that all over now?”

“Unfortunately not,” Fushimi sighs. “I’m not sure if I’ll spend the rest of the year with them or not, actually.”

“There’s always other clubs, even if it comes to that,” Izumi does not care about how this looks as she slides one of their pamphlets over to the kid. “We take everyone!”

Takato mutters something she doesn’t manage to make out, but Fushimi laughs warmly. “I’ll keep it in mind, I suppose. I played clarinet for a bit in middle school, but I’m afraid I might have already forgotten it all.”

“You’re a third-year, right? Three years isn’t that long. You’ll be surprised what your fingers remember when you’ve got it back in your hands again.”

“Ah, second-year, actually.” Holy shit, Izumi thinks. What has this kid been _eating_? “I guess you may be right about that, too. I’ll definitely leave it open as an option.”

“You don’t have to,” Takato tries to reassure, but Fushimi shakes his head with an amused grin. Takato sighs.

Minagi finishes packing up his trumpet and, with a nod to Izumi, heads off after Sakuma and Usui, taking the French horn’s case with him, too. Furuichi picks up his trombone case and follows after Minagi.

Izumi’s only half-listening to the conversation between Takato, Tsukioka, and Fushimi as she finishes up cleaning the piccolo (which had been a popular request by what few girls did end up coming over to the table). In fact, she’s ready to head off to the band wing herself with the last of the instruments when there’s another visitor at the table.

Izumi smiles up at the kid. “Hey! What can I do for you, kiddo?”

There are a few responses she expects. A finger pointing at the triangle lying on the table isn’t one of them, but it’s still less confusing than the aquarium kid from earlier.

“You… want to play the triangle?” she checks. A nod. “Okay, kiddo. Be careful with it, though.” She picks up the triangle and hands it over. “Just tap the sides with the wand to play. You can close your hand around the metal, too, if you like.”

The kid stares at the triangle for a moment, wand hovering, before he performs an eerily accurate triangle roll. He smiles wide in what Izumi can only assume is pure euphoria, and then starts another, much longer roll.

Izumi finds herself smiling back. How in the world the kid knows how to complete a triangle roll is beyond her, but the ecstatic smile he’s giving at doing so over and over lightens the soul. She’s about to say something – praise his abilities with the triangle, convince him to join the band and leave behind whatever club he had been helping out with today – when the kid spins around and raises the triangle above his head, beating it even louder.

“Kazuuuu!” he calls. “I got a triangle!”

Then, to her dismay, Miyoshi Kazunari raises his head from packing up the acrylics at the art table. “Yo!” he cheers. “Sumi, that’s super sick!”

“Come here! I wanna show you!!”

Miyoshi all but throws the rest of the pastels into the bag he’s packing things into. He vaults over the folding table, a choice that doesn’t earn him safety points or intelligence points in Izumi’s eyes, and skips on over.

“I’m here!” he announces with a wild grin.

‘Sumi’ plays the triangle even louder. “Isn’t it great?”

“Yeah! Do that roll thing like earlier!”

And the boy delivers. Miyoshi claps enthusiastically.

“Um, excuse me,” Izumi interrupts. “Miyoshi, I know you from class. But,” she turns to ‘Sumi,’ “Can I ask your name?”

“Ikaruga Misumi!”

“Ikaruga-kun, it’s nice to meet you! Do you have experience playing percussion? You’re actually performing some really good rolls right now, you know.”

Ikaruga hums in confusion and stops playing as loudly, but the wand keeps going and the metal keeps ringing at the lower volume. “No?”

What’s with that questioning tone, Izumi wonders. “No?”

“I just like the triangle.”

Miyoshi throws her a pair of finger guns, and Izumi’s grin drops for a millisecond. Please don’t have him flirt with her again, please don’t have him flirt with her again, please don’t-

“Sumi’s just cool like that! He’s the bestest.”

“Bestest?”

“Kazu always says that,” Ikaruga frowns, “but he’s the bestest at painting. He paints really good triangles for me. I have some hanging in my bedroom.”

“Aw, Sumi, I didn’t realize you’d put them up!”

“So, Ikaruga!” Izumi changes the subject : back to band. “You have any interest in joining the band?”

“Band?”

“Yeah! If you play percussion for us, you can play triangle whenever you like! Well, there are drums and chimes and that sort of thing, too, that you’ll learn.”

Miyoshi bumps Ikaruga’s shoulder. “That’s a good offer, Sumi. You won’t have to go to track anymore.”

“Only if Kazu joins, too,” is Ikaruga’s admittedly pouty answer.

Miyoshi laughs awkwardly. Izumi wonders if this is another thing similar to Takato and Tsukioka. “I have the arts club, though. I can’t let my senpai down!” Ikaruga continues to pout. “Aw, Sumi, cheer up! I’ll come to your performances!”

“You already come to all my meets,” Ikaruga counters.

“Yeah, but,” Miyoshi glances down at the triangle, “do you think you’d have more fun doing something with triangles?”

Ikaruga seems to think hard on the subject. Miyoshi looks down at the triangle in Ikaruga’s hands.

“You don’t have to decide now,” Izumi reassures him. “There’s still plenty of time to think about it. I didn’t join my high school band right away, either. I stayed in the Theatre Club for the whole first two months.”

“What made ya switch, fam?”

“Well, to be honest, I was absolutely horrible at acting.”

This seems to amuse Miyoshi greatly. He laughs boldly and freely, and Ikaruga smiles a little at the sound of it. Izumi hears Tasuku sigh from behind them.

“I don’t know if I can join.” Ikaruga quietly slides the triangle back onto the table. “My parents want me on the track team. Coach says I have talent.”

“You can always try juggling the both of them.”

Miyoshi’s cheer fades a little. Izumi wonders if there’s a reason why Miyoshi wants Ikaruga out of the track club. And, if he does, why he’s so interested in getting Ikaruga into the _band_ club instead of the arts club with him.

“Ikaruga! We’re taking the table back, can you help?” One of the other kids from the track club calls.

Ikaruga bounces back to awareness. “Coming!” he calls and, with a tug on Miyoshi’s sleeve as a good-bye, he runs off to join his clubmates.

Izumi and Miyoshi watch him go.

“Is it, like, cool if I talk him into joining the band?”

Izumi blinks and regards Miyoshi carefully. “A club’s a club, kid. The door’s open.” Miyoshi nods. “You’re welcome, too, you know. If it ends up being what gets Ikaruga-kun in.”

“Ah,” Miyoshi grins. “I don’t know about that yet. I wanna go to like a really swag art school, y’know? Gotta get my portfolio goin’! Idk if I got the time to vibe at band practice rn.”

“Suit yourself.” Izumi makes eye contact with Takato, who’s packed and waiting for her with Tsukioka. Fushimi’s already left. “We’re about done here, though. Feel free to talk to me on Monday, if you like.”

“Totes yeppers!”

Izumi wonders if her generation ever seemed so mystically out-of-tune with reality to adults in their own time. She hates, too, that she spends enough time on the internet and LIME that she can actually follow most of what Miyoshi says.

She turns to Takato and Tsukioka. Tsukioka offers a small smile.

“I’ll take care of the table,” he offers.

“Thanks, kid.” Izumi means it. Now, all she has to do is take up the triangle and piccolo. The others have taken care of the other instruments, and Tsukioka and Takato can take care of their own instruments just fine without her.

Takato ends up leading them out of the gymnasium, waving once at Fushimi as they leave, and to the staircase in the very back of the school building. They climb the stairs in silence.

The funny thing about school at the end of the day – once the clubs have packed up and once one gets into the back, unused halls of the building – is that everything seems to have that big, reverb sound. Every footstep and jingle of instrument cases’ handles and dull echoes of hands against railings or doors become amplified.

It’s best enjoyed in the early morning, at dawn when the dew is still crisp and the fog still silver, but the early evening silence is still enjoyable.

“A lot of the students at our table seemed kind of weird,” Takato breaks the silence. His words are awkward, and he has his hand at the collar of his uniform. Even just a week of knowing the boy has taught Izumi that it’s his giveaway for nervousness : very similar, actually, to Tsukioka’s gentler motion at the same place.

Izumi hums. “Different is good for a school so insistent upon homogeneity and consistency,” she offers.

She’d take Ikaruga and the kid wearing his brightly-colored shayla over any of the complacent attitudes one could find in sports clubs. Maybe that was the influence of her time in Western-style universities weighing her down with expectations of individuality, but… she doesn’t see a problem with it necessarily. Growing up gay in the suburbs has made her fond of opportunities for accepting diversity. She’ll create as many as she can for her band members while she has the time.

“A lot of our band members seem to have a lot on their minds,” she says, and she listens to Takato’s footsteps steady and sure on the polished floors of the school. They do not falter.

“There’s a lot to get through,” is all he responds with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh to be a high schooler fighting with another high schooler over being the lesbian teacher's favorite student *bonks sakyo*
> 
> tasutsumu rights, flirty azuma rights, sakumasu rights!  
> also sakyo's a huge softie and cannot be mean for longer than three seconds (but he still has a stick up his ass)
> 
> also the citron aquarium joke is that aquarium is suizoukan and wind symphonic is suisougakubu. they're a good bit different, but the first time i heard 'suisougakubu' spoken, the person said it so fast that i genuinely thought they said aquarium and was entirely confused for a good minute. also spies and spice in Japanese is both supaisu except one draws out the 'a' a little longer


	4. bare knuckles and dainty flutes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Settsu and Hyodo are introduced. Two arguments between old friends, turned enemies. The band newcomers have their jikoshoukai, and Itaru finds Tsumugi angelically pretty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty short and somewhat a 'filler' chapter despite having so many new characters introduce themselves. I look forward to exploring characters' dynamics more in the next chapter. For now, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> tw // slight islamophobia? citron mentions school admin not letting him wear hijab

The orange light of the setting sun pools across the sidewalks and roads, trickling down the sewer grates, and lights the fallen, pink sakura petals ablaze in yellows. The old railroad tracks are near – just across the street and over the chain-link fence – and birds chirp their last songs of the day. Weeds grow in thick clusters by the fence.

Juza reaches out to climb the metal links.

“Oi.”

He pauses, then pulls his hands away from the metal with a curse muttered under his breath. He turns around to face the source of interruption.

Settsu glares at him from a few feet away. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his jeans, and he stands arrogantly with his shoulders thrown back and feet wide apart. But his face doesn’t hold any of the confidence his body does. Instead, he simply looks angry and insecure.

The light of the sunset on his face is pretty, and it’s an unsettling thought to have.

Juza turns to fully face him. “What do you want?”

“The fuck?” Settsu marches forwards. “What do I _want_?”

“Yeah.”

Settsu shoves at him hard. Juza barely moves back a step, and he knows that this pisses Settsu off more that Settsu could ever put into words.

“You forget something this week?” Settsu sneers.

“Can’t imagine what.”

Settsu throws a punch for his jaw, but Juza ducks out of its reach and responds with a kick to the gut that sends Settsu flying back and his ass down to the ground. He’s winded, and he gasps for breath as he tries to scramble back to his feet.

“Go home, Settsu.”

“Fuck you!” Settsu coughs and manages to steady himself. “ _Fuck_ you.” Juza waits for Settsu to try another punch, but the guy just stands there, hand on his stomach, and coughs. “I hate you so goddamn much, you bastard.”

“What do you want with me?”

“I want your ass on the fucking ground. You think dodging school out the back way gives you a free pass to avoid me?”

“Wasn’t exactly intending on seeing your ugly mug.”

“Fuck you, you’re the ugly one.”

“If you’re just gonna be a pain in the ass, I’m going home.”

“You don’t get to just brush me off like that.”

Settsu’s seething, and Juza just wants to be left alone. But Settsu steps up right on over and gets into Juza’s face like he always fucking does : balls up Juza’s shirt in his fist. He has half a mind to knock the asshole right back down, but, for the sake of not having his mother see more bruises on his face, Juza keeps still.

“Let go of me.”

Settsu shoves at him again, and, this time, Juza backs up so he’s against the fence. Settsu follows right after him.

“Settsu, step _back_.”

“I ain’t listening to what you have to say, dipshit.” Juza starts to raise his fists, but Settsu catches them in a tight grip. “You think you can blow me off after school?”

“Don’t remember promising you anything. You’re the one that went and decided to come after me.”

Settsu has this weird way of getting angry. He can never be honest. He always has to yell and insult and fight rather than ever just talk about shit. It pisses Juza off.

He’s not sure what happened, exactly, in the time they spent apart during middle school. In their elementary school days, they had been inseparable. But then Settsu had gotten sent off to a real fancy and expensive private school while Juza continued to go through the cheapest middle school nearby their neighborhood. And when Settsu had come back, kicked out for ‘unruly behavior’ as Juza’s mother had quietly said over the dinner table, he had come back apparently hating Juza’s guts.

It would be fine, Juza supposes, if Settsu would just step off and leave him be. But the asshole follows him everywhere, itching for fights, and Juza’s had enough.

“Gotta get home for dinner. Move.”

“Fuck that. You came here to sit and mope around for a few hours. Don’t fucking lie to me.”

“Yeah, _was_. Now I’m going home.”

Settsu pushes forwards a little further, and Juza’s patience snaps. He wrenches his wrists free and and knees Settsu in the crotch. Settsu keels over, and Juza sends him to the ground with a single punch.

Settsu gasps in pain.

“The hell happened to you?” Juza asks. He doesn’t need to specify what he’s talking about.

Settsu glares up at him wordlessly, cradling the space between his legs, and Juza leaves. He has better things to worry about than whatever the hell Settsu thinks he’s been wronged over. Kumon’s got baseball practice after dinner tonight, for one, and he promised to go watch him this time.

Izumi pours herself another mug of curry broth. The little burner she’s been hiding under her desk and pulling out to heat her kettle with during the free periods has been working wonders. Nothing fixes grading and teaching stress quite like hot water with a bit of curry spice melted in. She takes a long sip and sighs happily.

The door to the band room slides open, and all of that relaxation sweeps right out the window. She glances over with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes?”

Takato stands in the doorway awkwardly. “We need your help.”

Izumi sets down her mug immediately. “What happened?” A lot of possibilities have come to mind : all of them including accidents with the school’s instruments. She really hopes she’s not about to have her pay deducted for replacement costs.

Sakuma brushes in past Takato. “Director! Which is the prettier instrument : sax or trombone?”

Izumi blinks.

Furuichi appears in the doorway and gives Takato a long, scathing appraisal. “Well,” he says, “which is it, Director?”

She picks up her mug and takes a much longer sip from it. Is it really the end of the school day already? She sighs.

“Obviously, trumpet’s the best. I’ve no opinion on other instruments.”

Takato and Furuichi grit their teeth simultaneously. Minagi squeezes into the band room between their shoulders. He looks a little smug, and Izumi assumes it’s because he’s a fellow trumpeter and likes having bragging privilege of sharing instruments with the band director.

“Sax is the more versatile instrument.”

“Trombone is easier to write scores for across genres.”

“No one dances to a trombone.”

“No one actually thinks saxes are cool, Takato.”

“And the trombone is?”

“Of course. It’s regal.”

Takato snorts derisively. Izumi waves a ‘hello’ to Usui, who slips into the room after Tsukioka. His face colors red, and she lowers her hand. She does a mental count, and, sure enough, all of the definite members are present. She wonders how many new recruits will end up showing today.

From how the recruitment fair went, she’s not particularly optimistic. Maybe the exchange student, she thinks, and maybe one or two of the students who silently took a flyer and walked off.

“Alright,” she interrupts a heated debate about the use of saxophones and trombones in string ensemble groups. Furuichi and Takato grumble under their breaths. “I want to make sure we look _normal_ to the new recruits, alright? Don’t overwhelm them with the usual band room shenanigans, I have to beg.”

“We won’t!” Sakuma promises. “Right, Masumi-kun?”

The other boy shrugs. He’s engrossed with whatever he’s looking at on his phone, and he slips earbuds into his ears mutely.

Tsukioka offers a kind but awkward laugh from the front row where he sits with his flute case balanced delicately on his lap. Takato sends a last unimpressed glance to Furuichi and joins Tsukioka.

“How was everyone’s Monday?” Izumi asks civilly.

“It was Monday,” Furuichi replies. He heads for the third row.

Sakuma brightens up from his spot beside Usui. “It was good! I didn’t expect high school to have this much homework, though! It’s already really difficult to balance all of the classwork.”

“I hear ya, kiddo. What’s on your plate for tonight?”

Sakuma considers this. “Um. I have a quiz in physics tomorrow. We have a bunch of homework tonight for trigonometry. It’s like three pages or so.”

“Sixty questions, last ten have three parts each,” Usui supplies.

Sakuma nods. “And then we have our first exam for Classical Japanese tomorrow, as well as a translation assignment due. Um. Oh, and we have half a book to finish reading by tomorrow for Literature, but I’ve already read it.”

Usui scrolls through his phone. “And the lab report for biology.”

Sakuma gasps. “I forgot that!” He pulls out a planner from his bag and frantically flips to the correct week.

Izumi doesn’t remember having _that_ much work when she was in high school here, but she supposes it _has_ been ten years since she was a freshman at Mankai. She’s sure things have changed : and, apparently, for the worse. Maybe they should consider truncating after-school band practice.

Tsuzuru raises his hand from the third row. Izumi points on him.

“Director, what are we planning to do for the new members who show?”

“Excellent question!” she chirps. She then realizes that she has nothing prepared yet. “Excellent question, indeed. Takato, Furuichi, you’re helping with set-up. Minagi, you, too.” Tsumugi and Sakuma raise their hands. “And you two will be our greeters.” Usui’s hand goes up. “You’re technically a newcomer, so you don’t have to do anything.”

“What exactly do you want us to do?” Furuichi sets down his trombone.

“We’re bringing all the instruments in here for demos.”

Itaru waits for Citron on the walkway connecting the two buildings of the school to each other. There’s a nice breeze outside today, and the sun hides itself behind grey clouds, which means that Itaru can play _Heed Me_ ’s rhythm game without sun glare or sweaty hands. He’s absolutely nailing this song, too. Hopefully Citron won’t show until he’s done. He might actually get a perfect streak for this song if he can keep it up.

“Chigasaki.”

Itaru’s fingers freeze. He clicks out of the app and switches to LIME. He opens Citron’s chat.

> _where r u?_

“Chigasaki, I know you’re ignoring me.”

“Not ignoring you.”

“Then, can you look at me?”

“Busy, sorry. Friend’s messaging me.”

Tonooka sighs. “Look, man, I said I was sorry. No one here knows you anymore, anyway. It’s not a big deal.”

Itaru’s waiting for Citron’s response. He needs a response immediately.

> _hurry up_

Tonooka walks over to him and rests his forearms on the railing. He’s too close to Itaru. Itaru weighs his options. He could take a few steps back, but that might give his discomfort away too quickly. He could leave, but that would risk Tonooka following him to the band room, which he is not going to allow. He settles for holding his ground.

> _*******’s here. move ur ass._
> 
> _i am coming now_

That gives Itaru some relief.

“What’s the big deal?”

Itaru shrugs. “People change.”

“It’s been like two years, dude. You were head over heels for me, too. All I’m asking is for a little forgiveness. I’ll treat you, if you’d like. You wanna come with me to the arcade a few stations down? I’ll win you one of those huge teddy bears.”

“No thanks.”

“Come on, Chigasaki. Don’t be such a stick in the mud. I can buy dinner, too. We can go to Slice of Life for pizza.”

“No thanks.”

He ignores the way his love for those places grows sourer and sourer in his mind every time Tonooka reminds him of them. They’re _his_ places. Knowing that Tonooka knows them makes him hate them. They’re _his_ places ; they shouldn't be in this guy's mouth.

“Come on,” Tonooka reaches out for Itaru’s shoulder.

“I said no.”

The hand finds its mark. “It was just a dumb mistake, you know? You don’t have to be so angry.”

The door to the walkway slides open. Itaru looks away from Tonooka and finds Citron standing in the doorway : extremely pissed.

“Take your hand,” Citron orders. “Bring your hand close to your own self.”

“Huh?”

“He says to get your hands off of me,” Itaru backs away from Tonooka. “And leave me alone.”

Citron marches out and stands in the small space between Itaru and Tonooka. It’s a kind gesture, but a small tightness of humiliation tugs at his throat. He’s not a damsel in distress, though he can’t deny that he needed Citron here for this.

“I’m not doing anything,” Tonooka argues. “I’m just talking. I can’t talk?”

“You are not just talking. You are being trouble.”

“Causing trouble,” Itaru rests a hand on Citron’s back and guides him to the side. “And no, you aren’t allowed to talk to me. You lost that privilege.”

Tonooka looks down at him for a minute longer. It’s hard to believe that this boy, with the cruelty Itaru now recognizes in his eyes and the falsity in the way he holds himself, is the same boy that had once cracked Itaru out of his shell with kind eagerness in their old homeroom. Itaru meets Tonooka’s gaze levelly.

“Fine,” Tonooka relents. He takes a step back and eyes them both. “I know when I’m not wanted.”

“Correct,” Citron agrees.

Tonooka’s eyes find Citron’s with an angry fervor. Then, he nods abruptly and glides past them on the way to the door.

“A shame your standards fell so low, Chigasaki.”

“Shame they were ever low enough to associate with you.”

The door shuts behind Tonooka.

Citron sighs. “I do not like that one.” He moves to crowd Itaru at the side. “Are you alright? Did he say anything mean before I arrived?”

“It’s fine. You came at a good time.”

Citron beams. “I always try my best!”

Itaru finds himself chuckling despite everything. “Thanks, man.”

“It is no problem! But are we late for club? We should go, shouldn’t we?”

Itaru had almost forgotten about the band club. He wishes he had forgotten about band club. Being home in bed with his headphones on and blasting through a dungeon or two sounds heavenly right about now. Just not KniRoun. Not that yet.

The thought itself sours his mood again.

“Yeah, we should go.”

Citron leads them across the walkway and slides the door open and shut for Itaru.

“What instrument will you play, do you think?”

Itaru hums. “Not sure. Maybe whatever you pick.”

“Playing together would be very...” Citron trails off and frowns at the floor as they walk. Itaru gives him a moment to think of the word. It takes a little bit. “I’m sorry, I do not think I know the word. It is when you are… two lovers together at dinner is a… this word scene.”

“Romantic?”

“Oh,” Citron frowns in confusion, “is it really just an English word?”

“Yeah, I mean there’s ‘sweet or ‘cute,’ but those are kind of,” he thinks of how to explain it, “simple words. Romantic’s much better.”

Citron nods seriously. “Then, playing together would be romantic.”

Itaru laughs. That was a lot to get through for such a sentence. “So, which instrument are you thinking about doing?”

“Perhaps the trumpet! It is a very strong instrument.”

“Kind of kingly, yeah.” Like in KniRoun- he needs to stop these thoughts. This afternoon hasn’t been ruined unless he lets it be ruined.

“No,” Citron frowns, “I do not like kings and queens and their families.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, forgot.”

“It is no problem.”

They make their way down the long hallways : footsteps echoing on the tiled floors. They pass a water fountain with a leaky tap and a small but comfortable-looking alcove in the turn of a hallway where a bookshelf and whiteboard and some instrument cases are arranged. A flower vase rests on an open window ledge precariously. In it, a group of yellow flowers sway daintily in the light breeze. As they grow closer to the band room, the sound of an instrument – perhaps a flute – grows discernible in the still air of this part of the building wing.

Citron approaches the band room door first and slides it open.

The flute stops, and Itaru steps into the room alongside Citron.

“Oh, more newcomers!” the band director exclaims with a happy little bounce off her chair. “That’s such great news. I remember you two from the club fair!” Then, she stops. “You’re not wearing your head covering?”

Citron smiles. “I was told to leave it at home.”

The director frowns. “They really told you that?”

“Yes. But it is not a problem. I can,” he turns to Itaru, “make do without wearing it?” Itaru nods to tell him he got the grammar structure correct.

“Are we too late?” Itaru asks.

He recognizes a few faces in the room that weren’t at the table for the fair and wonders if they’re newcomers or old members. There’s a boy with shockingly bright red hair there, as well as Fushimi and two other boys from their grade whose names he’s never needed to know. Fushimi offers them a wave, and Itaru returns it politely.

“Not at all! Come on in, we’ve barely started.” She gestures to the rows of chairs, and Citron sets off for them. Itaru follows more slowly. The director turns to the third-years who were at the club table. “Do you think we should wait a little more? If there are any other members, maybe we should give them time.”

“I doubt we’ll get many more attendees,” the third-year with glasses replies.

“Actually! My cousin may be joining in a few minutes.”

Itaru freezes. “Wait, what?” Citron turns to him. “Guy’s coming?”

“He insisted that he come with me. He said that he was worried. I think he thinks that I will be a- that I will _cause_ trouble.”

Citron expresses pride at fixing his grammar mistake so quickly. Itaru’s proud, too, but he’s also a little distracted. Guy isn’t exactly an outgoing person and may end up causing more trouble than Citron alone would. He sighs.

“Well. I guess that’s alright?”

“Cousin?” the director asks. “Did your whole family move to Japan?”

“Nope! Guy and I were accepted into the same study-abroad program! My family says that I am very loud and… fast.” He turns to Itaru.

“Uh, energetic? Does a lot.”

Citron turns back to the director. “energetic. They were worried that I would _cause_ trouble. Guy is here so that he may… help me.”

“Supervise,” Itaru supplies.

Citron pulls out his notebook from his bag and scribbles the word down. He passes it to Itaru, and Itaru writes in the kanji for him.

“That’s lucky,” the director nods. “Study abroad programs don’t accept a lot of people from the same area. Or, at least, they didn’t when I went to high school. My best friend got to go to Vienna, and I did not.” She claps her hands. “Right, well, when can we expect your cousin?”

The door opens.

“Now!” Citron cheers. He waves jovially. “We’re glad to see you!”

“I’m sorry for being so late,” Guy apologizes and shuts the door behind him. He nods to Itaru, and Itaru nods back. “I was held up speaking to one of my teachers after class about an upcoming exam. May I still join you?”

“Of course! Come and take a seat, we were just about to start!”

The third-year with glasses snorts. “We _had_ started.”

The director smacks him with her music book. Guy takes the seat next to Itaru.

“Alright, well, since we have three new members, how about we just quickly redo our self-introductions?” She smacks the tall and buff third-year next when he sighs. “I’ll head off. Technically, my name is Tachibana Izumi, but I really do prefer to be called just Director. No ‘ma’am’s or you’re out.” And with that mildly threatening statement, she gives the floor to the flutist beside her.

“Um. Tsukioka Tsumugi. I’m a third year now, and I’ve been playing flute for about six years now. I’m still not very good, but I’ll try my best to improve alongside everyone else.”

“Takato Tasuku. Third year. I’ve been playing saxophone for six years now.”

“Furuichi Sakyo. Third year. I’ve played trombone for three years, going on four.”

“Uh, Sakuma Sakuya! I’m a first year now, and, um, I haven’t decided which instrument yet to play. I hope to work hard alongside everyone!”

The boy with a bad hair dye, in Itaru’s opinion, needs a nudge to the arm from Sakuma before he realizes its turn. He takes out a single earbud. “Usui Masumi. First year.” He puts the earbud back in. Sakuma laughs nervously.

“Okay,” the brunette beside them mutters. “Uh, Minagi Tsuzuru. I’m a first year here, and I’ll be playing trumpet. This will be my sixth year on the instrument.”

“Kazunari Miyoshi!” the blonde kid from their grade cheers. “I’ve got like no knowledge of instruments, fam, but I’m here to support my bestie! Plus,” he winks at Takato, “musicians look real hot playing their stuff.”

“Next!”

The other boy from their grade seems to melt into Miyoshi’s side. “Misumi,” he whispers. Itaru can barely hear him.

Miyoshi, in a flourish, puts his arm around the boy and gives him a squeeze. “Ikaruga Misumi!” he announces to the rest of them. “In other words, my bestie!” Ikaruga smiles. “Also a second year, and also in another club like me. I got the arts, and he’s got track. We’re happy to be here!”

Fushimi nods. “I’m Fushimi Omi, and I’m also a second year. I played clarinet for the three years of middle school, but I’m afraid I haven’t played since. I hope to pick back up where I left off and support the rest of the band with what I have.”

Attention falls to the short, red-haired boy sitting a little apart from the rest of them. He straightens up with a grin. “Nanao Taichi! I’m a first year right now, and I’ve been dying to get into music for a while now, but I never got around to it. I look forward to learning with everyone!”

“Any idea for an instrument?” the director asks curiously.

“Uh, the euphonium and tuba look pretty cool! But I’m also kinda interested in clarinet.”

“Both are great options!” she enthuses. “We’ve yet to have a musician for any of those instruments, so you’ll fit in nicely.” The kid beams.

“I am Citron!” Citron announces proudly once the attention’s fallen on him. “I am from the country of Zahra, and I am in the second year of my exchange program. I am very excited to learn to play trumpet! Thank you for having me!”

Attention falls to Itaru. He feels a hot itch under his skin. “Chigasaki Itaru,” he gives them his prettiest smile. Tsukioka returns it shyly. “I’m a second year currently. I’m afraid I don’t have much experience with music or instruments outside of our required curriculum. But I’m happy to learn well with the rest of you.”

He wonders if he should add his ‘terms and conditions,’ as he likes to call it in his head. “Although, I’m afraid that I’m somewhat sickly, and I’m not sure if I can promise to make it to every practice. I hope you’ll forgive me for that.”

“No pressure, kiddo.”

He bows his head, and attention swivels to Guy. “My name is Guy, and I, also, am from the country of Zahra. Unfortunately, this is my last year in Japan, since I am graduating from my country’s high school this coming spring. I’m currently eighteen,” a few murmurs amongst the students, “and have some experience with many instruments that are of cultural significance to Zahra. However, I am afraid that none of these instruments are likely available here, so I will be just a beginner.”

The director claps her hands. “Excellent! So, it seems about half our crew knows which instrument they’d like to take up, and half don’t. Which is great, actually!”

Itaru wonders how much of her energy is genuine and how much is a performance. At the same time, she doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would be a good actor.

“So, we have a few instruments prepared for demo, if anyone wants to listen or try handling something. Tsukioka-kun has flute, Takato-kun will have sax, and Furuichi-kun will have trombone. Minagi, if I could have you with trumpet, and I’ll demo anything you like. Before we break up, does anyone have preference?”

Usui’s hand shoots up. “You play trumpet, right?”

“Um. Yes, but you should choose whichever-”

“I’ll play trumpet.”

Itaru raises an eyebrow. That’s not weird at all.

“Uh, that’s fine, then. Anyone else?”

The Ikaruga kid raises a hand. “I wanna play triangle!”

“Percussion, gotcha. Anyone else?”

“I’ll do percussion, too!” Miyoshi pipes up.

“I’ll take euph and tuba!” Taichi volunteers. “I wanna see if I can handle them both, since we don’t have anyone to play either.”

“Fine by me, kiddo, but don’t stress yourself out over it.”

Citron raises his hand. “I would like to play trumpet, as well. Would that be alright?”

“Of course! Alright, with three trumpets, I think we’ll have to cut it off there. Just so we don’t have too many of one instrument.”

There goes Itaru’s plans of taking the same instrument as Citron. This ‘band club’ seems more and more stressful beyond what he’s willing to put up with.

“Alright! Sakuma-kun, Chigasaki-kun, Guy-kun, you’re the only ones still undecided. Do any of you have a preference?”

Itaru considers his options. If he picks saxophone, there’s Takato, who looks agreeable enough, but also looks way too into this for Itaru to be able to pass with minimal effort. If he picks trombone, Furuichi looks about the same way. Fushimi seems a lot safer, as does Tsukioka. He accidentally makes eye contact with Tsukioka as he thinks, and the third-year offers him a shy smile.

“I can do flute,” he offers.

Tsukioka’s smile brightens. A pleasant heat kisses Itaru’s cheeks. Yeah, he can do flute.

“I’ll take trombone, then,” Guy offers. “If no one else will join the section.”

Furuichi nods shortly.

The director turns to Sakuma. “Well, kid? Wanna hop on clarinet or sax? You said you were interested in both instruments, if I remember right.”

“Yeah!” Sakuma bites his lip. “I’ll go with clarinet.” He smiles nervously at Fushimi. “If you’ll have me.”

Fushimi responds with a warm smile. “Of course.”

There’s a small pause as the seating arrangement shifts. Citron squeezes Itaru’s hand before heading off towards where Minagi and Usui sit. Guy, similarly, moves over to Furuichi’s side. Itaru hesitates before moving over to Tsukioka.

He’s vaguely aware that some of the other students are moving around behind him, but it quickly becomes white noise as Tsukioka smiles up at him sweetly. There’s an indent on his lip where the flute’s lip plate had been pressed firmly to not even ten minutes ago. It looks pretty on him.

“Chigasaki-kun, right?”

“Uh, yeah. You can use my given name, if you’re comfortable with that, though. I’m a pretty informal kind of person.”

“Itaru-kun?” Itaru tries really hard to not go doe-eyed. He nods. “Then, please just call me Tsumugi. I’m really excited to play alongside someone.”

“You said you’ve been playing a while. Is it a hobby, or is it something a little more serious for you?”

“Oh, I love flute with my whole heart. Well, I love _music_ with my whole heart.” Takato clears his throat beside them, and Tsumugi blushes. Itaru glances between the two of them. “I’d like to go to music school one day, but I’m not sure if I’m talented enough for that.”

“Don’t do that,” Takato grumbles. “You know you’re talented enough.”

“I suppose I’ll end up wherever Tasuku goes.”

Ah, so their relationship is like that. Itaru takes an emotional step back. It occurs to him how easily he had been willing to fall for Tsumugi, and he mentally berates himself. It would have been too easy for a Tonooka repeat to happen.

“You said you’re sickly,” Takato turns to Itaru. “What do you mean by that?”

“Is it serious?”

He dislikes talking about this now. Citron is right in a sense ; very few of their old middle school classmates have come to Mankai High. Plus, it’s been two years. The only ones who remember what happened were probably him and Tonooka anymore.

“No, it’s not very serious,” Itaru reassures them. “It’s, um, I get tired easily. And I’m not very strong.” None of that was a lie, technically.

“Oh,” Tsumugi hums. “That sounds very similar to me.”

He and Takato share a knowing look. Itaru wonders if they’ve been keeping themselves a secret this whole time. If they have, they’re not being exactly subtle about their secret. Then again, maybe it’s safe here in this band. Or maybe it was : before all of the newcomers this year. He sneaks a glance to where the director is trying to corral the three trumpeters.

Citron has dissolved into some level of utter chaos and has brought out his necklace from his shirt and is busy speaking with Sakuma. Knowing Citron, he’s probably telling some tall tale. The director looks as though she has a headache, as does Minagi, and Usui has both earbuds in, though his eyes watch the director.

Tsumugi adjusts the flute in his lap.

“Would you like to find a quiet space?” Tsumugi asks. His eyes have trouble dedicating themselves to meeting Itaru’s. “I can show you some of the basics of flute, and you won’t have to worry about the beginner’s learning curve being overheard by others. At least, I’m shy like that.”

Itaru finds himself nodding. Time alone with the pretty flutist, even if Tsumugi's already spoken for, certainly sounds like something he'd enjoy. “That sounds good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my thought was to make Citron trans and just find it weird to not wear hijab because he's so used to it at home? But I've yet to really flesh that out. It'll probably get mentioned later down the line. itatsumu... rights...


	5. brass pt. 1, arcade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> instrument cleaning day, a talk with Omi, Citron's antics in the faux spring troupe aka trumpet section, a trip to the arcade, Emika Chigasaki, and the music store
> 
> tw // transphobia (mentioned)

The first day of band club ends with Izumi calling together the three club seniors for an after-club meeting. It’s five in the afternoon when the newbies filter out of the band wing, calling assortments of goodbyes and well wishes. She makes the four of them all tea with her kettle, and they enjoy sip of Darjeeling as they discuss the trajectory of the year. The conversation winds up being a little more hectic than purely serious. Tsukioka mentions Chigasaki a few times in the meeting, resulting in Takato eventually snapping at his heels. Furuichi does nothing to help Izumi diffuse their quarreling. Yet, for students, they prove themselves mature in making decisions and settling on plans for the year.

Which is how, on Wednesday, Izumi finds herself with a medium assortment of the newbies in the instrument storage room, along with her three seniors, explaining their plan in cleaning the entire instrument storage room, as well as the instruments in it.

“I want to make myself so, so clear,” she brings her hands together towards her nose and peeks over her fingertips at the students, “that _no one_ is to do _anything_ they’re unsure about unless one of your senpai or I am encouraging you to continue. Instruments are expensive beauties, and I can’t just replace a valve if someone damages the water pad. Got it?”

A mute chorus of nods.

“Alright! Tsumugi-kun, Sakyo-kun, Minagi-kun, you may take your students. Tuba and clarinets stick with me.”

The group breaks off into small subsections.

Chigasaki follows after Tsumugi with a doe-eyed expression of a high school boy with a crush (it’s a sweet look on him, Izumi ends up entertaining as a short-lived thought). The flutes will clean their instruments before dusting the instrument room. Sakyo and Guy have the responsibility of clearing the storage room of all the brass instruments and lining their cases up and down the hall to give the flutes space later.

Usui and Citron follow after Minagi in polar opposite manners. Citron loudly chatters in between vocabulary gaps about some legend from his home country that is very transparently driving Minagi up the wall. Usui has one earbud in, and it’s in the ear closest to Citron.

Tasuku doesn’t have any students and already expressed extensive displeasure with the state of his one-man saxophone section during their meeting on Monday. For today, Izumi’s asked him to take out all of the woodwinds from the storage room once the clarinets have gathered their cases. Both of their band’s percussionists are busy with their other club activities. Ikaruga had mentioned Tuesday/Wednesday/Thursday/Saturday track practices earlier during lunch break, and Miyoshi had already informed her that he would only be able to make Monday practices.

Which leaves Izumi with Fushimi, Sakuya, and Nanao.

“‘Kay, kids. I think this room only has a few clarinets, so we don’t have too much work cut out for us.” She and Fushimi move over to the shelf of clarinets.

The selection is remarkably sparse. There only appear to be four clarinets in total, and she and Fushimi each grab two.

Izumi lays them down on the floor and unzips them. “Fushimi, what clarinets do you have?”

“I’m not sure I’d know,” Fushimi bashfully laughs. He lays the cases on the floor and unzips them. “Are there usually a few different types in symphonic?”

“Eh, not usually in high school.” Izumi peeks down into his cases. “Okay, it looks like we have three B flats and an A. Not sure why we have an A.”

“Is it very different?”

“Not really to the ear, but the score for it’s different.”

Fushimi hums in polite interest and zips up the case when Izumi starts to do so herself. They stand back up, and Izumi’s about to go over to the tubas and euphoniums to help Nanao pick an instrument out when she hears Sakuya’s voice.

“Director! What about this case?”

“Huh?” Izumi looks over her shoulder and finds Sakuma staring at the bass clarinet case hidden in the back of the bass instrument shelves. “Oh, that’s the bass clarinet.” She hadn’t even noticed the case until now.

“Bass clarinet?”

“Mhm!” Sakuma reaches out and pulls the case out just a bit closer. “It’s just like any other bass instrument, really : lower pitch and larger build. Most bass clarinets are built like a sax almost.”

“A saxophone?” Sakuma pulls the case fully out. “Can I look?”

“Go ahead, kiddo.”

Izumi turns her attention back to the tuba and euphonium cases. She lays them out and opens their latches to look inside. One of the tubas has a sizable dent in it that is _decidedly_ neither her nor her students’ fault. If the records of the band are to be trusted, this must have been put in the instrument since before the third-years entered high school. She closes the case and focuses on the other ones.

Nanao leans over her shoulder as she checks them. When she gets to the last tuba case, she’s pleasantly surprised by the silver coloring.

“Director, can I have this one?” Nanao asks.

“Sure, kid. You like the silver color for brass?”

“Yeah! I think it looks really cool.”

Izumi shuts the case and moves it closer to Nanao. “All yours. I wonder if we have a silver euphonium.” Considering there’s only one euphonium case, she doesn’t have high hopes.

Sure enough, when she opens the lid, the brass instrument is a shining gold color. She closes the case and pushes it over to Nanao.

Noises from behind her tell her that Sakuma’s opened the bass clarinet case. She gets the tuba cases standing up and lifts herself back off the ground. A buzz from her jeans’ back pocket informs her that her best friend’s finally answered her text. She pulls her phone out and reads the message on the home screen.

“Why aren’t we offering bass clarinet as an option?”

Izumi hums and waits until she responds to the message. “Bass clarinet isn’t a very common instrument for beginners to choose. I guess I just didn’t think to mention it.”

She pockets her phone and lifts up one of the tuba cases. Nanao has already disappeared out into the hallway.

“Not common?”

“It’s a support instrument. Not many people like playing instruments that get overshadowed by the louder and prettier instruments. Trumpet and flute tend to be very popular. Sax and clarinet, too. But not many people play trombones or tubas or, well, bass clarinets. They’re not… easily lovable for a lot of people.”

“Oh.”

Izumi carries the tuba to the door. She glances over her shoulder again. Sakuma stares down at the pretty black resin of the instrument’s body.

“Can I play bass clarinet, then?”

Izumi blinks. There’s an unexpected sadness to the way Sakuma asks the question, and she’s afraid to know where it comes from. “Of course.”

Sakuma glances up at her after a second, then smiles. Izumi hides the frown tugging at her lips. “Thanks,” he says quietly.

Izumi hauls the tuba into the hallway.

The gentle reminders of Sakuya’s response to the bass clarinet continue to ebb over Izumi for the rest of the afternoon. Even as she’s coaching Fushimi in rinsing the mouthpieces of the clarinets, even as she’s keeping an eye on the way Sakuya swabs the inside of the barrel and joints with the cleaning cloth, it bothers her. Maybe it’s nothing.

Halfway through realizing that Fushimi’s two seconds away from getting the cork wet, she decides to let Sakuya come to her on the matter if there _is_ a matter and if he wants to talk about it. She manages to save the cork, too.

The real riddle of the cleaning exercise is that Nanao seems way too at ease with the tuba and euphonium. He had washed the mouthpiece in the correct manner before getting instructions from her, and she had seen him start to pull out the tuning sliders before pausing and sitting down to wait for her. When she does begin to instruct him to remove the sliders and unscrew the valves, he doesn’t hesitate for even a second before complying.

She supposes it’s not really a problem if the kid is lying about his experience with the instruments. There are reasons behind every lie ever told, and, in a first-year band member’s case, she assumes it’s to protect the feelings of the second-years who have no experience with instruments. It’s a very sweet decision to make, in her opinion.

Fushimi is the only one of the three to not seem to have any tricks or stories behind his back. He’s gentle with the instrument and listens close to instructions given. A bonus is that he seems to take to Sakuya easily, and the first-year just as well to him. It will be good to have a positive chemistry between the clarinetists for the coming year. It’s a notoriously tricky instrument for starters – what with the _obnoxious_ squeaks the instrument is so prone to producing – and a bit of solidarity will help everyone involved in the learning process.

At some point, Fushimi and her get to talking about the soccer club he’s left behind in favor of the band club, and Izumi’s unsettled to learn how many of the sports club supervisors at this school have expressed discriminatory attitudes towards the student body. Fushimi’s reason for leaving, he tells her quietly as they rub the clarinets’ resin with polishing cloths, was to protest the dropping of a student from a nearby middle school track team on account of their gender transitioning : a decision that, apparently, Mankai High’s soccer coach had publicly and vehemently defended.

“Well,” Izumi sighs. “I’m proud of you, at least, for making your stance on the matter clear.” She lays down the upper joint into its proper indent in the case. “A lot of people try to keep their heads down about these kinds of things.”

Fushimi shrugs. “I’m not sure me sitting out makes much of a message, but, yeah, it feels relieving to not be under his thumb anymore.” He lays his own piece down in the case and sits back as Izumi works on the bell. “In all honesty, I wasn’t completely set on the band until Furuichi mentioned to me your willingness to take Homare in.”

“Wait, who’s Homare?”

“Oh! Maybe I shouldn’t have told you the name.” Fushimi looks fairly embarrassed. “Sorry, I didn’t realize that he didn’t tell you.”

Izumi hums, thinking it over in her head. It’s a good few minutes before she gives up and admits, “Okay, I’m lost. What did I say?”

“Um. No, I probably shouldn’t. But it gave me some confidence in this club. I know Takato and Tsukioka feel plenty comfortable here, so I suppose that should have been a good indicator, but I guess your reaction was what solidified my decision to join.”

“Well, I’m glad you did join. I don’t think I could have gotten away with trying to equally balance tuba lessons, clarinet lessons, _and_ percussion lessons all at once with complete beginners. Having you and the third-years around really helps.”

“I’m glad we can help,” Fushimi smiles, and he seems to really mean it.

Izumi zips the clarinet case closed. She glances over to where Nanao and Sakuya are polishing the tuba : splitting the instrument between each other to half their cleaning responsibilities.

“So, you do anything other than soccer and band?” she asks. They have a little bit before the two finish.

“Hmm, I help out around the art room a bit throughout the day and after it. I used to do some photography, too, so I guess I’m just comfortable in that part of the building.”

“You hang out with Miyoshi-kun in there?”

“Miyoshi? It’s hard to avoid him.” Izumi matches his good-natured chuckle. “He does some photography with me when he’s bored, but he’s usually hunched over his canvases in the back for most of club time, actually. This year he starts his portfolio for art school applications, and I hear he’s been completely engrossed in it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much of anything about the arts.”

“Uh, how do you get into music school?”

“Auditions, usually.”

Fushimi nods. “Well, yeah, art school’s kind of like that. Except the audition is stretched out over two years, and you don’t have to perform in front of anyone. The school Miyoshi’s dying to get into expects a lot for portfolio submissions.”

“What’s Miyoshi-kun do? Like… art-wise.”

“Little bit of everything, I think. He’s the type of person to get bored easily if he restricts himself to one thing.”

Izumi makes an ‘ah’ sound. “Guess that’s why he decided to put band club on top of his plate, too, then.”

“I’m sure,” Fushimi laughs. “Though, I’d bet money that Ikaruga has a lot to do with that decision in particular.”

“Starting to feel like all my students are social outcasts or something,” Izumi jokes lightly. “Not a bad thing, though. Most of my friends were, too.”

“Because you’re,” Fushimi clears his throat awkwardly.

“A lesbian?” Fushimi nods short and awkward. Izumi laughs. “Yeah. Kinda good to know that the band club’s still a sort of refuge for our kind of people.”

Then, Sakuya and Nanao are waving her over, and she excuses herself from Fushimi’s company to help them with whatever stuck valve they’ve run into.

“No!” Tsuzuru wails in despair. He clutches his hair in a grip so tight he might actually tear more than just a few strands out. “No! Oh my god, can you-” He screams as Citron waves the trumpet around wildly in the sink, barely missing the hard basin with the bell.

“It is no problem, yes?” Citron laughs. “I am very careful! I do not make the mistakes!”

He swings the bell close to the basin again, and Tsuzuru groans like a man in agonizing pain upon his deathbed. Teasing the first-year is proving to be a _great_ amount of fun.

“What do I do next? The long things?”

“The l-” Tsuzuru struggles to keep up. “The _valves_? Holy God, you mean the _valves_? They’re called _valves_. No, don’t!” He hisses a breath out as Citron picks up a valve and holds it dangerously close to the water pouring from the sink spigot. “Oh, please, please, what do you want? I’ll pay you money? Please, don’t get the felt wet. The Director will _kill_ me, do you hear? _Kill me_.”

“I do not know those words,” Citron frowns. “Is it like ‘happy?’”

Tsuzuru starts tearing his hair out. “I can’t do this. Okay. I’m. I-” He starts off for the door. “I’m getting Takato-senpai. Usui, watch him, please, I’m begging.”

“Shut up.”

Tsuzuru bangs through the sliding door of the classroom. Citron laughs.

“Wow, he is very easy to make angry. It is a lot of fun, actually.”

Usui eyes him warily. “Your Japanese is much better than what you say when you’re around that idiot. Why do you fake it?”

Citron offers the first-year a wink. “Sometimes,” he sighs, “it is fun to bother the people you find cute.” Usui scrunches up his face like he personally finds this news revolting. “I am sure that you have pretended to be somewhat different than you are when you are around someone you like.”

Usui doesn’t respond. As far as Citron’s concerned, he’s hit the nail right on the head. He turns back to the sink and gently submerges the trumpet under the sudsy water and lets it soak. Perhaps Tsuzuru will come back with the Director and he’ll get an earful. Perhaps he’ll succeed in harassing Takato all the way to their classroom. Either way, he looks forward to Tsuzuru’s return.

Itaru’s never been closer to heaven. Here he has Tsumugi with his arms around him, guiding his fingers on the soft keys of the flute, and the lovely floral scent of the boy’s detergent wafting (or perhaps Tsumugi’s the type of boy to wear ladies’ perfume without blushing over it). Tsumugi’s blushing over their positioning, though, even though Tsumugi’s the one who suggested it in the first place. They’ve long since finished cleaning and moving the instruments. And it was Tsumugi who offered to show Itaru the small nook in the hallway where some odds and ends of instruments and music books are hidden. Apparently, the dainty little flower on the windowsill was his, too.

If Itaru’s lucky, the gentle breaths hitting the back of his neck might turn into soft lips. It’s not entirely out of the question, either. In the back of his mind, Itaru wonders how alright this is : if Tsumugi’s doing all of this behind Takato’s back. But right now, he really can’t bring himself to care less.

“How do you feel?” Tsumugi asks in a whisper.

“About?”

“The, um, the flute. The fingerings. Do you feel like you get it?”

Itaru has the fingering for A, A flat, B flat, C, D, E flat, F, and G etched into his very skull. But he responds with a purposefully sweet, “I might need one more explanation.”

“Ah, that’s alright.” Itaru can hear the shyness and the smile in Tsumugi’s voice.

Tsumugi’s fingers gently press down on top of Itaru’s : pointer, middle, and ring on the left hand and pointer and pinky on the right hand. It’s a silly thought, but Itaru really hopes that Tsumugi can’t hear how quickly his heartbeat is in his ears and chest.

“So, that’s the F.”

“Alright. I think I got that one.”

Tsumugi presses down on the middle finger and ring finger of Itaru’s right hand, lifts up on the left hand’s pointer. “And that’s the E flat.”

“Alright.”

Tsumugi lifts his right pinky, and Itaru’s eagerly follows, and then the sound of frantic footsteps enters both of their ears. Tsumugi leans back, and Itaru clears his throat awkwardly as he leans forward and turns his body to the side. They’re separated but far from taming their blushes when Tsuzuru rushes past their little alcove on the way to wherever.

“Uh, Minagi-kun!” Tsumugi calls. He steps out around the bookcase and into the hall. “Minagi-kun!”

The footsteps pause. “Tsukioka-senpai! _Chigasaki-senpai!_ ”

Itaru jumps out of his skin when Tsuzuru throws himself around the corner and launches his hands onto Itaru’s shoulders, shaking him.

“Watch the flute!” Itaru manages, and Tsumugi quickly steals it from his hands to keep it safe. Tsuzuru continues to shake him.

“You _have_ to help me! You’re friends with Citron, right? Please, oh my god, he doesn’t understand a single word I say! You gotta help me! He’s going to destroy the trumpets!”

Tsumugi helps Itaru extract Tsuzuru’s dangerously claw-like fingers from his school uniform.

“Uh,” Itaru doesn’t really know how to respond. Citron’s Japanese is not nearly bad enough to provoke this kind of reaction.

“Please!”

“Okay, I guess? What’s… wrong?”

Tsuzuru snatches his wrist and begins dragging him down the hall. “I can’t explain it. I have such a headache, you have no idea. No idea! Just _help me_.”

Tsumugi runs after them, flute in hand. “Wait, Minagi-kun. Where are you taking him?”

“Bio classroom 234. Big sink. Horrific Japanese inside, can’t miss it.”

Tsumugi meets Itaru’s eyes and gives him a worried look of concern. Itaru tries to shrug and give an amused smile, but it must not come across as such because Tsumugi’s mouth sets in a worried line. He starts to run back for the flute case.

It ends up that Tsuzuru _throws_ him through the doorway of the biology classroom in question. Itaru stumbles – nearly trips – and catches himself on one of the lab tables. He recognizes Usui first, sitting on top of a different table and scrolling through his phone. Then, in the back, holding a sudsy trumpet and looking more than surprised, Citron stands in full glory. Very clearly, he’s not doing anything bombastic or dangerous.

Itaru bites back a sigh that _this_ managed to cut off his time with Tsumugi.

He turns to Tsuzuru with a raised eyebrow. “Okay, I’m here.”

“Him! Talk to him! Tell him that he’s going to dent the bell if he’s not careful and that he can’t get the felt of the valves wet and tell him what valves are and tell him what felt is and tell him what a bell is and tell him-”

“Dude, he’s not bad at Japanese. He’s fucking with you.”

Tsuzuru’s mouth drops, and Itaru genuinely doesn’t know if it’s because of the switch in Itaru’s speech style or because of the information just laid on him. Citron barks out laughter from the back sinks. Tsuzuru turns his head to gape at Citron.

“You!” he sputters. “You- I can’t believe you!”

“Sorry!” Citron calls back in English.

There’s a moment where Itaru thinks he’s about to witness an aneurysm. Tsuzuru makes a horrific wheezing sound : perhaps, it’s a groan instead. Footsteps and jangling of flute case handles indicates that Tsumugi’s caught up to them.

“Wait,” Tsumugi’s voice wobbles. He’s out of breath and leans on the doorframe. “What’s the laughter for? Is everything alright?”

Tsuzuru doesn’t respond so Itaru offers, “I don’t think anything was ever wrong in the first place.”

Citron has still yet to stop laughing. He clutches the counter behind him, and the suds drip on the floor off the trumpet bell. Itaru sends him a look.

“Oh,” Tsumugi looks between the three of them nervously. “Okay.” He looks to Tsuzuru. “What was the issue?”

Tsuzuru wipes his face with his hand. He doesn’t respond.

“I am sorry for causing trouble to you,” Citron quiets from his laughter. “I was simply trying to make jokes and be funny.”

“Oh,” Tsumugi nods slowly. “That’s… fine? I’m happy that you like band! But, um, you… you might want to take care with the instruments. I’m not sure the Director would…” He trails off, unsureness thick in his tone.

Citron frowns. “I am very sorry. I will take more care.” He turns to Itaru. “Is there an easier way to say that?”

“Be more careful?”

“I will be more careful from here on.”

Citron slugs the skee ball up the runway and manages to score in the 100 slot for the ninth time in a row. Itaru watches the skee ball machine ding with the highest score possible and the machine’s tickets pour out of the ticket slot in an endless chain. Citron methodically folds the tickets into the lasso of tickets he already has slung over his shoulder. This is his fourth perfect score : an easy four-hundred yen for enough tickets to buy the huge teddy bear on the second-to-top shelf plus a handful of the candies that the both of them like.

“We’re gonna get, like, kicked out if you keep scoring like that.”

Citron blinks. “Is that a joke, or are Japanese arcades truly that strict?”

“I mean. Maybe? We _are_ high schoolers in an arcade, man. Not many people think that looks good.”

“But I can buy you the bear?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s not a problem _now_ or anything.”

Citron eyes him with kind but careful eyes as he continues to wrap the tickets around his shoulder. “Are you mad because I… stopped your time with Tsumugi?”

“Interrupted. And, nah.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” Citron doesn’t seem to believe him. “Okay a little, but it’s entirely against your lead trumpet guy. Tsuzuru whatever. Forget it. It’s stupid.”

“Not stupid,” Citron disagrees. “You and I dated. I know how you… feel?” Itaru nods “-around people you like.”

“That barely counted as dating. We barely did anything.”

“We married in Animal Crossing. And co-op’ed in Stardew Valley.”

“Love the dedication to gaming. But, no, I mean like in-person stuff too. We kissed like five times.”

“And you were very afraid to hold my titties.”

Itaru chokes. “Woah, woah, woah, okay, woah. Pause. Pause game. Woah.” He waves his hands. “Where’d you get that word?”

“Erotic manga.”

“WOAH, tmi dude, holy,” Itaru covers his eyes for a moment. _Holy shit he didn’t need that_. “Okay, woah, fuck, no. That’s not… regular people do not just say that word in conversation. Well, sorta. But like. Not in an arcade where kids can hear, dude. Say like.” He realizes he doesn’t actually know a good way to say it without sounding like a pervert. “Uh.” Citron raises an eyebrow. “Okay, tits, maybe? Nah, that sounds weird as hell. Boobs? That sounds weird, too.”

“I think,” Citron hums with a secretive smile, “that you are gay, Itaru, and know very little of… most women’s bodies. What is the word for when you are born a woman and stay that way?”

“Cis.”

“Yes. You do not like cis women’s bodies.”

Itaru feels like he should protest this. He has no problem with Citron’s body. “That’s not,” he tries, but Citron seems to be enjoying this too much. He scowls. “You’re fucking with me.”

“I do nothing but amuse myself.”

“Har har.” Then, because he feels it’s necessary, he adds, “But it really wasn’t the tits.” Yeah, it sounds weird casually.

“It is fine,” Citron says. “I do not think that you did not want to continue dating because of my… tits.”

“Right.”

There is a mildly awkward silence that ensues as Citron finishes up with the tickets.

“Shall I buy you your bear and our candies?”

Itaru glances to the prize counter. On a normal day, he’d like to grind a little at the Pac Man and assorted old-style Atari games along the far wall, but today isn’t exactly a normal day. On normal days, Itaru doesn’t almost get kissed by pretty boys in school.

“Yeah, sounds good.”

Citron leads the way over to the prize counter and takes initiative in speaking with the lady in as clearly enunciated words as he can manage, which end up sounding very forced. But the lady’s good about it, unlike so many other store workers, and interacts with Citron without once trying to ask him where he’s from or going down the road of ‘Oh, your Japanese is so good!’

They end up leaving the arcade with Itaru’s newly-won teddy bear in Itaru’s arms and Citron carrying the candies. The doors shut behind them. They exchange a single glance.

“My house?”

“Your house.”

They set off for Itaru’s house. It’s a Wednesday evening, so Itaru’s big sister will be home to help their mom in the kitchen. Hopefully, they’ll have something Western-style for dinner instead of oden or whatever Emika likes so much (Itaru _hates_ all of the root vegetables that his sister seems to eat exclusively).

“So, did you kiss him?”

“Huh?” Itaru trips. Citron catches him without missing a beat. “No, we didn’t kiss. Got, uh, got pretty close, though.” He sighs. “Am I a bad person?”

“What do you mean?”

“Isn’t Tsumugi dating Takato-senpai? I feel like I really shouldn’t be getting involved.”

“But you… got close?”

“Well, in the moment, he’s just so pretty, and I kind of forget myself and go pogs. I don’t know. I like when he looks at me? But when I’m away, I can think a lot clearer. Not sure I should be ruining their relationship.”

“Perhaps, Tsumugi finds the relationship boring?”

“Yeah. I also just… I don’t know. Not sure if I’m ready for a relationship yet. Which, by the way, is the real reason I asked if we could take a break.” Citron frowns as if he’s thinking very hard about it. “Not sure I’ve recovered from you-know-what. I think Monday proves that.”

“Do not worry,” Citron assures. “You will learn to love again.”

“Those are song lyrics.”

“They are, but they are also my true opinion.”

Itaru sighs. “Yeah, I just… I’m not sure yet. Having someone… touch me still feels weird.” Citron waggles his eyebrows. “ _Not_ like that, you pervert. I mean like. It’s weird having someone brush my shoulder and try to hold my hand in order to get attention. It feels like,” Itaru realizes he’s not ready to relive those buried memories, “never mind.”

“I understand. Not the whole thing, of course. But I understand most of what you are saying. I think time will help. Time and many video games. Speaking of which!” This is a new set phrase that Citron had recently learned and now loves to use and practice in conversation. “Speaking of which,” he repeats, “I bought the new Mario Kart last night. Do you want to play it while we wait for your sister to cook dinner?”

“Yeah,” Itaru finds himself smiling. “I’m going to beat your ass, though.”

“I know the roads better than you.”

“For now.”

It’s later that night, after Citron eats dinner with Itaru and his sister in the empty apartment and leaves (Emika making oden, of course, without their mom there to stop her) that his sister starts to really sink her teeth in him. It doesn’t happen immediately, either. It’s after he’s hassled into drying the dishes and after he’s gotten a soda out of the fridge to sip at despite his sister’s disapproval. In her opinion, tea is a much better choice. Unlucky for her, Itaru thinks tea tastes like piss. Not that he knows what piss tastes like, but the idea’s there.

“What’d you boys get up to today? Just the arcade?”

“Sure.”

She lightly kicks his ankle. “You’re spoiled rotten, you know. Mom was never this lenient with me.”

“ _You_ didn’t have severe social anxiety as a result of horrible experiences with your peers.”

“You don’t have social anxiety,” she scoffs. “At least, not with a good ninety percent of people. Trauma and anxiety disorders are different.”

“Yes, O’ Venerable Psych Student.”

She kicks his ankle again. “What’s the coolest intellectual character from your kind of games?”

“Uh. Like DnD?”

“The one with all the different classes and that kind of thing.”

“DnD.”

“Sure. What’s that world’s version of a psych major who plans on grad school?”

Itaru thinks. “Wizard, probably. I can see a case being made for bard, too, but you’re not a bard.”

“A wizard, huh?” Emika muses. “Pretty cool, I guess. Do I get a pointy hat?”

“If you want, I mean, defense inventory’s up to you.”

She nods. “I’d like a pointy hat. Hot pink.” Itaru gags, and she laughs, spritzing him with water from the sink. “So, you spent _three hours_ in the arcade today? How much of your allowance did you blow through?”

“It wasn’t _three hours_ ,” he complains. Though, he’s been known to spend much longer than that in the arcade on weekends. “I had club activities with Citron until five.”

Emika stops washing the mug she has covered with soap suds. She turns to her Itaru with her entire body and rests a sopping wet hand on her hip. “You have _club activities_?”

“Shut up.”

“Oh my god, my wittwe baby bwothew joined a cwub?” She starts trying to pinch his cheek with said wet hand.

“Ew!” he waves the towel at her frantically. “Ew! Ew! That’s wet!”

She laughs loudly : totally unlike her cute little ‘teehee’ she gives when she’s in public surrounded by a bunch of cute girls. Because however ‘mature’ she insists she is, she’s about as weak to a French braid and pink eyeshadow as Itaru is weak to whatever Tsumugi has going on. It occurs to him in a very distant and half-conceived thought that his sister and him share a _type_ : sweet, effeminate, and quiet. He’s not sure how to feel about that.

“Well, which club did you join?”

“Not telling.”

“Oh, pretty, pretty, please?”

“Buy me pizza and a six-pack of cola and maybe.”

Emika frowns. “You always get as many toppings as possible on your pizza. It costs a fortune. Vetoed.”

“Wh-” The slight frown indicates she’s being serious. “Nee-chan, please?”

“I’m the psych student, stupid, I’m not going to fall for that wheedling.”

Oh, she thinks she’s so smart. She’s a _freshman_. But Itaru knows how to save this and get what he wants in one turn.

“Fine. I was going to tell you all about band club, but I guess I won’t now.”

Emika snags his shoulders with her pretty pink-painted nails in a tight, vice grip. He tries to scramble away, but he’s done for. Total game over. Probably lost the treasure chest spawn, too.

“ _Band club_?” she gasps. “What do you want on your pizza?”

Treasure chest _respawn_. “Everything. Except ham and pineapple.”

She narrows her eyes. “Pineapple is very good for you, actually-”

“You’re a psych major not a dietician. I want everything except ham and pineapple.” He smirks. “Or no band club stories.”

She wipes her hands on the towel and goes for the landline phone. Itaru doesn’t think success has felt this good in a long time. The long order of toppings, the additional basket of fries she orders him, the fact that when she goes out to the convenience store later she’ll end up buying him a six-pack of soda. He doesn’t even mind drying the last of the dishes.

He takes a seat at the table with his bottle of cola and basks in the way she goes to get him one of her scrunchies to tie his hair up with. He loves wearing those cute, pink-and-white, floral things she has. He hates that she never leaves a single one behind for him to use while she’s at uni.

“Alright,” she tosses the scrunchie at him as she rejoins him in the kitchen. “Everything pizza, no ham, no pineapple, extra fries, more soda later tonight, plus a scrunchie. You got want you want plus more. Now spill. _Band club_?”

He takes a long sip from his soda. “Yep. Flute.”

She loses her mind. There’s a solid minute where she buries her face in her hands and then does a very unflattering combination of pulling her braid out and yanking her hair before rubbing her face and eyes again with her hands.

“ _Flute?_ ” she finally repeats.

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“Citron wanted to join, so I followed him.”

“Aw,” she pouts. “Not because you wanted to be like your Nee-chan?”

“If I wanted to be like you, I would’ve chosen trumpet over flute.” He wisely keeps to himself the tidbit that it was only after the director closed the trumpet section that he thought of any instrument other than trumpet as an option.

She hums. “Alright, I think the idea’s starting to settle down in my head.”

“Took a while.”

“Hush. So, why flute?”

“Tsumugi-san was in band last year, wasn’t he?”

“You chose flute because of Tsukioka?” She thinks on this. “What do you mean?”

“Seemed nicer than Takato-senpai or Furuichi-senpai.”

She nods. “Those two are pretty intense. Minagi and I had a hard time settling them down after our recruitment fair went so poorly.”

“Oh, yeah, Minagi’s little brother’s in band, too. Tsuzuru, I think? Citron seems to like him, but I don’t get it. He’s kind of,” he thinks about it, “lame.”

“You’re lame, too. Nothing but games in that peabrain.”

“You’re insufferable.”

They fall into silence as they wait for delivery. It’s kind of nice, he supposes, to have his sister home. Even if it does mean being forced to eat oden when mom gets held back at work. Even if she’s a menace about the state of his room.

There’s also the fact that she knows Tsumugi, and the others, and he can just talk to her about it if he wants. And that’s when he realizes that, this entire night, he’s been tiptoeing around the fact that he does, in fact, want to talk about it.

“Nee-chan,” he tries. A hum. “Can I… Can we talk about… what happened two years ago?”

She’s kind enough that she knows he doesn’t like to hear the name. “Of course? What brought it up?”

“I saw _him_ again on Monday.” She tenses. “It’s okay,” he tries to reassure her. “Citron showed up at a good time, and _he_ didn’t really do anything. But… I think it’s really starting to hold me back.”

She nods slowly. “I was kind of afraid of this. That the trauma would end up keeping you away from similar relationships.”

“Well, yeah, I guess. I think with Citron it was fine? I liked him, he liked me. But we’re too good of friends, I think, so it was just more natural, in my mind, to be friends than to be dating. It didn’t really occur to me that I also wasn’t ready for a relationship.”

“Didn’t even realize you two were trying to be a thing,” she admits.

“Yeah, it was pretty stealth. But, anyway, what I’m trying to get around admitting is that I like Tsumugi.” She stares at him. “And I’m pretty sure he likes me.”

A long silence ensues.

Then, she bites her lip. “Icchan, sweetie, Tsukioka and Takato have been dating since _elementary_ school.”

That hurts pretty bad. Kind of like when you accidentally walk into the part of the dungeon that has an instant-ko trap waiting for you.

“Oh,” he says, and it sounds pretty pathetic to him, too. “Are you sure? Because Tsumugi…” He thinks back to earlier that afternoon, with Tsumugi’s hands over his and soft breath on his neck. “He likes to… be near me. He blushes a lot, too, when I talk to him.”

“Well, Tsukioka does blush a lot,” his sister muses seriously. “But I never would have called him physically affectionate.”

“Is it wrong if I reciprocate?”

“Wrong? No, if he and Takato aren’t a thing anymore – for whatever reason – there’s no reason to feel bad about having a crush on someone and acting on it. Are you sure Takato… knows about this, though?”

“I don’t know.”

His sister hums low and nods slowly. “Well. There _was_ that one kid who came into the band room a few times to flirt with Takato and Furuichi. Maybe he and Takato have hooked up.”

Itaru blinks. “Wait. Who?”

“Long, pale hair. Effeminate. Furuichi and Takato called him ‘Yukishiro.’”

Itaru has never seen anyone who fits that description, let alone matches the name. He shakes his head in confusion. She shrugs.

“Maybe, maybe not. Either way, I’d hang back for a bit and see how Tsukioka and Takato act around each other for a while longer. You’re a smart kid. You can do the mental math.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

The doorbell rings, and Emika jumps to her feet. Itaru matches her. They race each other for the delivery man, shoving each other into the wall as they run down the hallway.

Sakuya places the bass clarinet back down between his legs and sighs. He’s gone through the entire first half of the Essential Elements book in the last two hours. The store closes soon : at eight o’clock, actually, and it’s seven thirty according to the clock hanging up behind the sales counter. He doesn’t have much of a good excuse to be any later in going home.

He begins to dissemble the bass clarinet gently. He cleans the pieces carefully and gently just as the Director had instructed them earlier that afternoon. One of the workers in the store – the soft-spoken, middle-aged guy with long hair nearly the same color as Sakuya’s – waltzes over when he sees that Sakuya’s finished up. He’s a good guy in Sakuya’s opinion : lets him practice with the instrument for free so long as he doesn’t damage any of what he uses.

“How’re you liking the bass?” the man asks, sliding onto a piano stool across from Sakuya. “Bit big for you, isn’t it?”

“Not at all!” Sakuya chirps back. He lays the last piece into the case. “I’m really glad I learned about the instrument!”

“Band club, you said?”

“Yep!”

The man nods. “That’s a good experience to have. Here, I can take it back behind the counter. No worries, kiddo.” He takes the case in his hands and balances it on his lap.

“Oh, are you sure?”

“Positive. Gives me something to do before closing.”

Sakuya understands the desire to keep busy. It’s what kept him going as he was traded between relatives like a bad souvenir. The best remedy for an aching heart is hard work.

They talk for a while longer before Sakuya says his ‘thank you’s and ‘goodbye’s and goes to leave. It’s nearly 7:45 now, and he’s not only short on time for his homework but past late for dinner. He’ll need to think of a good excuse for today.

As he reaches for the store door’s handle, it opens in on him. He flinches back and out of the way.

“Oh, sorry,” a familiar voice apologizes. “I expected this to be a pull not push.”

Sakuya blinks at the boy. Green hair, glasses, and a faint smirk. “Oh!” he exclaims. The boy blinks, smirk vanishing to be replaced with mild confusion. “You’re a third-year, aren’t you?”

“Um.”

“At Mankai High School.”

The boy glances past him and into the store. “Well, yes, but if you’ll excuse me, I’m running low on time-”

“You gave me directions on the first day.”

The boy eyes his face, then recognition seems to lighten his eyes, though not his expression. “Ah, that was you? Lovely. But I’m afraid I don’t have much time, so.”

“Sorry!” Sakuya steps back and lets the boy into the store. “I’m Sakuma Sakuya, by the way! I guess if we keep bumping into each other, it might be nice to know names.” He laughs.

The boy doesn’t laugh back. “Right. Pleasure. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” and he walks away at that.

That’s a bit rude, in Sakuya’s opinion, but it _is_ fifteen minutes until closing and late enough in the night that he has to forgive him. He steps out of the store and takes a moment to enjoy the brisk night air on his skin. A breeze blows past. Spring truly is his favorite season.

Sakuya turns his feet homewards and sets off. His footsteps scratch the pavement of the streets. He lets his thoughts drift off. Maybe, he could invite Masumi to join him next week. He’s already been responding more and more when Sakuya tries talking to him in band and in class now. It could be nice to have a friend for company during the after-school hours. He turns the corner and begins the ascent up the hill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this came out much quicker than i expected?? the next update will take a bit longer because it's both longer length-wise and because i have a lot of work coming up in the next few days. thank you to everyone leaving such kind comments so far! they make me so excited to start working on the next chapter each time i read them.


	6. reed, euphonium, dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the beginning of sectionals, sakuya and taichi conversations, percussion drama, and mondays (ugh)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhhhhh i didn't want to take so long on this update... ;-; i honestly don't even know what happened the last few weeks (i think it's been two since i updated??) this chapter was weirdly hard to write, and i'm kinda too done with it to extensively edit. i am excited for the next chapter, tho!! hopefully the rest of this week will give me that precious resource called 'time'... thank you all sm for waiting!!

Izumi arrives to the school building early the following morning. It’s past the mid-point of April, she realizes, as she stares up at the cherry blossom trees in the school’s front yard : long since having dropped their flowers in late March’s warm weather. It seems that the spring has forgotten itself lately. A cold chill’s swept in from the north, driving temperatures back down into the mid-teens. As a result, Izumi’s bundled up in her autumn coat and winter scarf for the day.

She picks up her pace as she nears the building and jostles her pockets searching for the correct set of keys to the building.

“Director?”

She glances up, a little startled, and finds Sakuya sitting on one of the front benches by the school doors, bag between his ankles, and wearing much too thin of a jacket for this weather. She finds herself pulling off her scarf before she even realizes it.

“My word, you must be freezing!” She walks up to the kid and sets to tucking the scarf around his neck and securing it into the collar of his jacket. “How long have you been sitting here?”

Sakuya flushes. “That’s- you don’t have to-” but Izumi’s already finished her work and steps back. Hound’s-tooth wool is a sharp contrast against the rather blasé palate of Mankai High’s uniform.

“I can sneak you in,” Izumi offers. “I mean, I’ll probably get in trouble if I do it regularly, but it’s too cold for you to wait another hour out here.”

Sakuya nods awkwardly. “Thank you,” he says quietly into the cool air.

Izumi unlocks the school’s front doors and lets them into the shoe locker area. She closes and locks the door behind them as Sakuya wanders off to fetch his shoes. She wanders over to her own shoe locker and pulls them out.

“So, what were you doing outside this early?” she calls as she slips her work flats on. She needs to get a better pair of shoes. The ones she has bite at her Achilles' too much and wear her skin red - even through socks - by the end of the day.

“Um.”

There’s a nervous silence that follows. Izumi closes her locker and waits for him at the hallway entrance. The longer the silence stretches on, the most concerned she becomes.

“Sakuya-kun?”

“It’s kind of hard to explain.” He tries to break the tension with a laugh as he joins her. They set off towards the second half of the building. “I, um, felt like leaving early this morning.”

“Are… you sure?”

“Yeah! I didn’t realize it would be this cold today.” He seems to remember her scarf and hastily undoes it from his neck. “I’m plenty warm now, though! Thank you for lending me it. Really, I didn’t-”

“It’s fine,” she interrupts him kindly. She accepts the folded-up scarf when offered. “I’d feel bad if I was wearing so many layers while you were just in your school blazer.”

Sakuya nods minutely, and they leave it at that. When they arrive at the faculty room, there’s only one other teacher present this early in the morning. Izumi mumbles her morning greetings as she fetches the room keys from her desk. The teacher eyes Sakuya but doesn’t raise a question. They take their leave as soon as they can.

The school building is chilly, too. When more faculty members arrive later in the morning, the room heaters will be turned on, and the building will gradually warm with bodies and heating fans alike. For now, the air is cold and still in the way that, such as in winter, one could almost believe that they could cut through the air with a sharp enough ice pick.

It reminds Izumi of the old days where she and her high school sweetheart would bring the band room space heater into the little crook of the hallway, where the shelves and the whiteboard were, and cuddle under one of the spare blankets while leaving notes on each other’s sheet music. Those days were always in January and February. She realizes she hasn’t gone through that small crook yet since returning. She’ll have to go through the things there at some point before summer vacation begins.

If summer ever begins, that is, what with the weather deciding to be blustery and cold this late in April.

She and Sakuya make it to the band room and separate once through the door. Sakuya has schoolwork to be studying, evidently, for he grabs a music stand and spins it flat to lay his books down on. She goes to her desk and puts her sushi selection of the day in her mini-fridge.

“You want any tea?”

Sakuya blinks up at her before registering the box of tea bags in her hand. “Thanks!”

And, so, Izumi grabs her kettle to fill with water from the water fountain.

As she watches the water ever slowly begin to pool in the kettle, she thinks that she might invite one of her old friends back to keep her company during summer cleaning of the instruments. It could be fun to share memories : or introduce a college friend to the place she spent her high school years.

She returns to the band room with enough water for two. Sakuya is still bent over his classical textbook, reviewing his conjugations and the functions of whatever auxiliary verbs he’s surely reviewing in a last-minute panic for a quiz or test.

The water heats. The tea bag steeps. The tea is poured. Sakuya enjoys a small break to sip at his steaming mug. Izumi pulls out yesterday’s quizzes and sets to grading the last set. She’ll be able to hand them back out to the students today, and, then, she might be able to get around to grading their electronic tests. She hates those tests.

The idea behind them isn’t bad at all, if she’s being honest. Using a computer as a tuner for each note individually, calculating the difference in tone, and spitting out playing performance tests is actually useful. But the mics that the school provides are fairly fritzy, and so the tests end up being graded by the ear anyway as Izumi goes through them recording by recording. She, unlike a computer, can hear the difference between a D sharp that’s distorted by mic crackle and a D sharp that is _not_ a D sharp.

She’s on her last quiz when the door to the band room swings open. And she finds herself looking at the exact kid whose quiz she’s grading.

Miyoshi peeks into the room and offers a wave before hopping inside.

“Mornin, fam!” he calls. Sakuya turns around and offers an exuberant reply. “Sorry, I guess it’s kind of early for students to be in here? I snuck through an open window on the ground floor. It was, like, mad parkour on my part.”

Izumi stares.

“Parkour is like-” Miyoshi tries to explain.

“I know what parkour is,” Izumi shuts that down. “Why are you breaking into the school?”

Miyoshi frowns a little. He leans on the back of a chair. “Well, okay, I was kind of joking. Sorry. The art room lets us in early if we, like, don’t make a scene about it.” Izumi raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, okay, this is kind of a scene. But I have a good excuse! I’m bored.”

Izumi’s not sure what she’s about to do. She knows that she’s opening her mouth to respond, but she hasn’t decided which words yet to say. Does she scold him? Does she say that the band room’s open to all?

Sakuya beats her to it, though. “Don’t you have portfolio coming up?”

Miyoshi groans. “No, don’t remind me. I’m like fresh out of ideas, and I just wanna take a break. For a month. Maybe longer?” He flops into the chair beside Sakuya. “Oh! Is this classical?”

“Yeah! I’m having a lot of trouble with distinguishing _ni_. I don’t think I know the difference between conjunctive, nahen, and case particle anymore. Aren’t they all just indicating a state that something is moving towards?”

“Ohhh, yeah, I gotcha. I see where you’re coming from.” Miyoshi snags pencil. “Try thinking of it like a party.”

“A… party?”

Izumi prays that Miyoshi isn’t about to decimate what little Sakuya _does_ understand.

“Yeah! Jocks and sports fans and gym-goers are all pretty similar, right? They like muscles and sweat.” Sakuya hums quizzically. “But they’re different, right? Jocks play school sports. Sports fans watch sports. And gym-goers just like being in shape without the sports stuff. So _ni_ is kind of like that, yeah? State something’s moving towards, yeah. But how? Is it nahen, where the verb is _actually_ translated as ‘to become?’ Is it a case particle, where it indicates something that we need to know about how a noun is being interacted with? Or is it a conjunctive particle, connecting two completely different phrases?”

Sakuya nods slowly. He points to a sample sentence. “So, here… it says _fune ni_ … so… it’s about a boat… which is a noun…” Miyoshi nods encouragingly. “So… we can’t become a boat.”

“Nope!”

“And there’s only one phrase.”

“Yep!”

“So, it has to be a case particle.”

Miyoshi nods enthusiastically and pats Sakuya on the back. “You got it, fam! Try a harder sentence.”

Izumi tunes the rest of their conversation out. She looks down at Miyoshi’s quiz on her desk. So far, he’s turned in nothing but straight perfects on his work. Even in his playing tests, he hasn’t missed a note nor squeaked his recorder or harmonica. She supposes it must take a lot of effort and hard work to be good in so many different spheres.

After all, no matter how skilled she is with a trumpet, she’ll never be able to paint a portrait.

Eventually, the bell rings for eight o’clock gate opening. Sakuya packs up his materials, and Miyoshi lingers to walk him to class. Izumi wishes them a good day. Then, they’re out the door, and she has a whole two periods of quiet before her classes begin. She looks around her band room and sighs. Maybe she’ll make herself another cup of tea.

She sees Miyoshi again during his class period : hands out the graded quizzes and watches him check the grade for just a fraction of a second before sliding it into his bag. She sees Sakyo and Tasuku, too, in their respective classes.

Everything else blurs together somewhat into trips to the water fountain, sips of tea, and recordings to listen through.

She _does_ register the bell ringing to signal the end of sixth period, and she lets out a groan of relief and leans away from the desk : stretching her arms out behind her. Usui ends up being the first one through the door, followed closely behind by Citron and Chigasaki, who are chattering in depth about whatever is on their phones (if Izumi hears correctly, a game?). Tsuzuru wanders in not soon after, lugging a hell of a trumpet case with him.

“Is that a wood case?” She peers around Citron, who moves out of her way.

Tsuzuru gestures to the case, and she nods. “Yeah! It’s my grandfather’s.”

“Oh, wow. When I heard that your whole family was into music, I didn’t imagine it went that far.”

“Fifth generation brass.”

That’s impressive. That’s beyond impressive, actually. She thinks about it. Tsuzuru's ancestors were playing trumpet all the way back into the turn of the twentieth century.

Citron peers over Tsuzuru's shoulder as Tsuzuru opens the case. He rests two hands on Tsuzuru's shoulder, which are promptly shoved off.

“Oh, Tsuzuru, you are so cruel.”

“I’m not _cruel_. I don’t want you ruining my instrument. Or the case. Anything, actually.” Tsuzuru pulls the chair with his instrument further away from Citron. Citron follows. “Just… just give me some space, okay?”

Citron hums and backs off, floating over to where Itaru has sat down in the front row. Citron wraps his arms around Itaru and leans down onto him.

“Itaru, you must be kind to me now. My heart has pain.”

“That’s not how you say that,” Tsuzuru snaps.

Itaru and Citron hide wicked grins.

Then, the three seniors are entering the room, and Izumi stands up from her desk. All she needs is Fushimi, now, and they can start proper lessons. It’s a little weird of a feeling to start sectional lessons without the percussion members at practice, but she supposes the club can’t do sectionals only on Mondays. Besides, both Miyoshi and Ikaruga seem skilled enough to not need the extensive lessons that some of the newcomers might.

Fushimi and Nanao come in together, chatting about some topic, and carry their instruments over to their seats. Seeing Nanao carry the tuba – in its grand, bulky size – is quite the sight.

“What are we planned to do today?” Tsumugi asks.

Izumi leans on her podium and glances between her two flutists. Chigasaki is still on his phone, but she knows that as soon as Tsumugi asks for his attention, he’ll put it right in his pocket. She glances over to the trumpet section, which is picking up in noise. Apparently, Citron has stolen a mouthpiece.

“Well,” she says, “we _were_ going to do sectionals. Still are, hopefully, if the trumpets don’t dissolve into a civil war.”

Tsumugi glances over his shoulder to follow her line of sight. Tsuzuru has placed the trumpet back in its case and is now playing an interesting version of musical chairs where Citron and he circle the chair without any intention to sit down. Citron waves the mouthpiece around jubilantly. Usui eyes them both from his own chair, slid back away from the two. His lip curls in disdain and perhaps disgust.

“Um,” Tsumugi forces out a laugh. “Yeah.”

Sakyo looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm. Tasuku doesn’t look too far behind.

Then, Guy enters through the doorway, and they’ve all their members for the day assembled. Izumi claps her hands.

“Alright!”

Citron snatches the seat and sits down, peacefully ignoring the way Tsuzuru tries to shove him out of his seat.

“You annoying-”

“Tsuzuru-kun!” Izumi calls. Tsuzuru goes rigid as a board. “Is there a problem?”

Citron smiles sweetly up at the brunette. Tsuzuru's jaw works a bit before he bites out, “No problem,” and takes his seat in Citron’s chair.

“Fantastic.” She checks to make sure she has everyone’s attention. “So, the general idea is that we’re starting sectionals today.”

Citron raises his hand. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand that word.”

“Sectionals. We breaks off into sections by instrument. All of the trumpets will practice together, for example, and all of the flutes and trombones and so on.”

“Understood!”

She gives him a thumbs-up. “So, being sectionals, I hope you all can _cooperate_ ,” she eyes the trumpets, “and get through just some of the basics for notes and rhythms. I have practice books by the instrument over on my desk, so I’d like you all to pick one up for your instrument. Let’s try to get through,” she thinks on it, “just the first two pages for today.

“I’d also like all of you to assign section heads, who will be in charge of representing your section for band, as well as acting as a second set of ears for all the other members of their section. Section heads will also be in charge of cleaning school instruments of their type and overseeing practices.”

There’s a pause.

“You can choose now,” she encourages.

Chigasaki points to Tsumugi mutely, and the boy blushes. “Tsumugi-san’s the best choice for flutes.” Tsumugi tries to wave off the praise.

“Alright,” Izumi makes a note on her list of club members beside Tsumugi’s name. “Clarinets, trumpets, and trombones are the other sections with more than one player.”

Guy raises his hand. “Furuichi-san should be in charge of trombones. He has much more experience with music and the instrument than I do.”

“Alright.” She turns to trumpets and clarinets.

Sakuya nervously shares a look with Fushimi. Then, Fushimi raises his hand. Izumi writes a note beside his name on the list.

“I believe that Tsuzuru is very skilled and should be the trumpet leader!” Citron announces.

Usui glares at them. “You two can’t handle yourselves. I’ll take leadership.”

“Wh-”

Citron keeps Tsuzuru seated in his chair instead of launching over to Usui. Izumi sighs.

“I’m putting Tsuzuru-kun down.” Usui gapes at her. “He has experience both with the instrument and with band, not to mention music as a whole. Maybe you’ll be section leader next year.”

“It’s alright, Masumi!” Sakuya encourages.

Usui glances between the pair of them before frowning and returning to his phone. Izumi’s going to consider that a win.

“Great! So, section leaders are in charge of helping newcomers learn the basics of their instrument. Um,” she looks to Tasuku, “for those without other members, you can either join a group or practice on your own. Saxes and clarinets could be a good pair.”

Tasuku shrugs. “Sounds fine.”

“Although, bass clarinet is pretty different from the clarinet that Fushimi-kun will be playing. Sakuya-kun, would you be alright sticking with me for today? Nanao-kun, you, as well!”

Nanao straightens up in his seat in the back and beams. Sakuya, similarly, doesn’t seem to mind the idea.

They end up tucked into the front corner of the classroom by her desk : chairs and music stands dragged over and music books pressed open to the first pages. Fushimi and Tasuku linger in the classroom, too, in the back by the percussion to give them space. The brass have all but vacated this wing of the school, as not a single note from their bells can be heard.

She’s kind of excited to work with a euphonium and a bass clarinet in the same practice. They’re very different instruments not just because of their range but owing to the reed versus mouthpiece and the wood and resin versus the metal. She has both their practice books’ scores out in front of her in the conductor’s version and highlights the bass clarinet line in pink and the euphonium line in blue. They’ll work on the tuba later.

“So,” she begins. “I know you spent some time yesterday getting used to holding the bass, Sakuya-kun. I don’t think you tried playing.” He shakes his head. “And, Taichi-kun, you said you don’t have experience with brass?”

“None!”

She wonders how much he thinks she believes that. “Well, then, I don’t want either of you to feel embarrassed if you can't get the notes out right away. Some things just take time. If you look to the first note, try to copy the fingering on your own instrument.”

Sakuya’s fingers find their way to the keys slowly, hovering to keep the keys open in the correct fingering. Taichi’s fingers immediately find their ways to the keys and the mouthpiece to his mouth.

“Okay. Now, Taichi-kun, purse your lips almost like a grimace like so,” she demonstrates, “and press firmly against the mouthpiece without feeling like you’re leaving a hard imprint on your lips.” He finds his positioning and embouchure quickly. “And, when you blow, try to blow a raspberry into your instrument. The vibration of your lips combined with the airflow will make the note come out.”

Taichi takes in a deep breath and blows. The note comes out painlessly. Izumi turns to Sakuya.

“Alright, kiddo. You got a bit harder of an embouchure to hold. Follow the instructions you have in your book : bottom lip over bottom teeth, fair amount of the reed in your mouth, and upper teeth on top.”

Sakuya fumbles his way into the correct embouchure.

“Chin down.” He lowers his chin. “Okay, now keep your lip corners tight.” They purse. “And try blowing down into the reed.”

A horrific squeak screams out of the clarinet. Taichi rubs his ears with a wince.

“Sorry!” Sakuya pulls back, eyes wide. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that!”

“No worries! Lots of clarinetists squeak for the first year or two. You just get better and better at not squeaking. Try again.”

Sakuya steadies himself on the reed. His posture’s good, though Izumi wonders if she should mark exactly where on the reed to hold on the lip. Another squeak.

“It’ll take some time! You don’t want to blow too fast or too slow. Adjust your grip and angle. Adjust the reed. You’ll find that sweet spot eventually, and you’ll get conditioned to holding the instrument there naturally over time.”

They wait a bit as the kid blows through the reed in short, squeaky screams as he tries to find a position that helps him get the note out rather than the squeak. Eventually, he gets a very sharp G out of his instrument.

He pulls off the reed, eyes wide with excitement. “I did it!”

“There you go! Over time, you’ll get used to that position. Until then, we can only try our best and practice regularly.” Izumi glances at Taichi, who fiddles with the keys of his euphonium. “Try holding your notes together.”

Taichi glances up and immediately looks away upon seeing Izumi watch him expectedly. He lifts the euphonium to his lips and adjusts the mouthpiece minutely. He waits for Sakuya to place the reed back in his mouth, stagger into the proper embouchure.

Izumi raises a hand. “Alright, kiddos. When I move my hand, start your airflow. Hold it as long as you can or until I make a fist.”

They blink. She raises her hand and gestures outwards, holding her palm open for a sustained note. Taichi’s on the beat without a moment’s late arrival : F clear and strong. Sakuya comes a tad late and comes as a squeak, which is adjusted painfully into a G and wobbles in its tone as his airflow wobbles in strength.

They run through exercises on breathing on and off the instrument for the rest of the time, scattered with bits of information on Izumi’s part about techniques for holding keys and the instrument itself that would aid with keeping all key pads firmly closed while playing (a notorious cause of squeaks). Sakuya takes well to the instruction, though his sound doesn’t reflect as such.

Fushimi and Tasuku join their group for a small while with their own reed instruments. They offer tidbits of advice and tips in their own words to supplement Izumi’s instructions. Taichi works through the first two pages of the book over and over, euphonium cheerfully bum-bumping out the notes.

The sforzando blasts out of Citron’s trumpet bell at an alarming volume before rapidly crescendo-ing once more. Masumi curls a lip. Minagi holds his ears. Only when Citron’s air runs out and the trumpet goes silent does Minagi lower his hands.

“I most definitely did _not_ tell you to do that,” he snaps.

“I do not understand your vocabulary. It is very difficult!”

“No, no no, nope. I’m not falling for that again. You can understand me, you bastard. I said a steady and _soft_ stream of air. We’re going for piano right now. _Piano_.”

“The instrument?”

Minagi hisses. “ _No_.”

Masumi clears his throat and the two look over to him questioningly. “Perhaps we should concentrate more on what the Director told us to accomplish. I refuse to look bad because you two can’t shut up.”

“Oh! Masumi is very bad meaning!”

“What are you even saying? Bad attitude? Mean? How do you mess that up?”

“Tsuzuru is very angry.”

“Shut up,” Masumi snaps. He’s not going to get embarrassed in front of the Director because of these idiots. “Minagi. Go over the difference between G and C again.”

Minagi blinks. He pulls away from Citron. Good. He’s distracted. “Uh, right. Um. Okay. So you’re going to need to purse your lips tighter for the G. It’s higher, so you gotta work more for it, right? Faster air and tighter lips.”

He gives a small demonstration on his trumpet.

“Okay? Masumi, you try.”

Masumi raises his trumpet. The metal mouthpiece still feels clunky against his lips – ugly and clumsy – but he tries to imagine the way the Director had looked stunning when playing her own instrument. The way her lips tightened and loosened as she played. He imagines that in his mind, and his lips find their way into their embouchure. He tries a note.

It’s a C. He thinks about the Director’s lips, about Minagi’s lips. He tries tightening his own. He blows again. A new note – one he hasn’t heard before from his instrument – comes out. He pulls away a little.

“Good!” Minagi encourages.

Masumi returns to the mouthpiece and replicates the tighter embouchure. He blows. The G flows out. Minagi nods.

He’s good at this, Masumi thinks to himself. He might be able to get through the book by the end of next week. Then, he’ll have the Director’s whole attention. He could be a prodigy. Maybe he’ll go into music school and land a job as a music instructor like her. They could be colleagues, maybe. He lowers the trumpet.

Citron plays another deafening sforzando on the C.

By five thirty, Sakuya’s out of air, and Taichi’s clearly bored with his assignments for the day. Other sections trickle into the band room, instruments in hand and faces pale and sweaty from new breathing exercises previously unfamiliar to them. Blowing out so much air certainly does make one go light-headed. Chigasaki’s half-carried in by Citron and Tsumugi.

They leave one by one, a few in pairs. Tsumugi and Tasuku leave together first under the apology of having to be home at Tasuku’s grandparents for dinner. Guy, Chigasaki, and Citron head out not soon after, Chigasaki still slumped onto Guy’s shoulder as he walks. Fushimi takes his leave step-in-step with Minagi. The two players have clearly found a conversation topic in common between them, and they talk with friendly smiles as they wave their good-byes and head out the door.

It’s when Izumi’s finishing up checking the instruments that Sakyo announces that he has to leave early to help his step-sister make dinner.

Usui and Sakuya are the last students remaining in the band room with Izumi.

“Either of you want a last cup of tea?” Izumi offers.

They shake their heads, and she disconnects the electronic kettle and shelves it beneath her desk. She’ll grab her keys and purse and a few folders, and then she’ll be done for the day. There’s a small ache in her neck for whatever reason. She’ll have to make sure to angle her pillow tonight to get rid of it.

Sakuya stifles a yawn behind a hand.

“Tired?” she teases.

“A little! Our classical quiz was tough today. Right, Masumi?”

Usui doesn’t lift his eyes from his phone. “Maybe if you didn’t study.”

Sakuya winces. Izumi feels for the kid. So far, he’s been nothing but a cheerful ball of optimism and cheer – even in his quietest moments – and he’s been going out of his way to speak with Usui. Usui, however, doesn’t seem to be taking to Sakuya in even the slightest bit. What Sakuya _doesn’t_ see, though – and Izumi, in her cozy position at the front of the classroom, does – are the small glances Usui sends Sakuya’s way ever so rarely when Sakuya’s talking enthusiastically to Tasuku or Sakyo or Fushimi.

She hums. “Usui-kun, you shouldn’t say harsh things in front of people who you may be speaking about.”

Usui blinks up at her : lowers the phone. He turns to Sakuya. “Did you actually think the quiz was tough?”

“Well, um, kind of.” Sakuya’s face rapidly reddens. “It, um, I mean-”

“Sorry.”

Sakuya gapes. Masumi turns away. Izumi hides an amused grin.

“Alright, kids. I’m done for the day, so I’m locking up. You two got dinner at home soon, right?” She doesn’t miss the way that Sakuya suddenly won’t meet her eyes. Masumi, too, has his head down. “You _do_ have dinner at home, right? Parents, relatives?”

Sakuya nods. “Yeah! Um, yeah, my aunt cooks well.”

Masumi merely shrugs.

“Well, alright, then. Shall we get going?”

Lying to the director is a bitter feeling, Sakuya realizes the moment he does it. He tries to reassure himself. It wasn’t a _lie_ necessarily. He didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. But some people count omission as lying, and he doesn’t know if the director does, too. She had asked pretty specifically, too. He sets down the help book _A Beginner’s Guide : Tips to Having Fun on Your Bass Clarinet!_ down and sighs. He really can’t focus with all this guilt bubbling in him.

Maybe he should tell her truth. Adults are so hard to talk to about these things, though.

It’s not as if he’s suffering, he reasons. He’s making the problem worse. No. He’s the problem. Sakuya sighs again. He really is the problem. Even if his aunt dislikes him – even if he doesn’t fit in well at that house he’s expected to call ‘home’ – it’s his fault for staying out here in the music store rather than going home and making more of an effort. Maybe if he just tried harder, things could work out. Maybe it really is all his fault.

He can’t just tell that to the director. Her opinion of him will surely lower : even more than it already has hearing his incompetence on the bass.

Sakuya wishes for the millionth time that day that he could be naturally good at his instrument like Taichi had been. Like how Masumi is. He buries his face in his hands and groans. If only he could just do something right and well without having to try so hard and fail in the beginning, maybe then he could make the people around him happy.

Maybe he should give up. He’s never really given up on anything before. It had just never seemed like an option. But this instrument seems so difficult, and every time he messes up his airstream or his embouchure or his fingering, the squeaks from it physically hurt the people around him. He can’t pretend he didn’t see Taichi flinching in the seat next to him.

Sakuya raises his head slightly from his arms. He can’t just break down in the music store. Hinamori-san is behind the counter, and he’ll ask questions if he starts to look too down. Plus, there are other customers around.

He’s about to go back to the self-help book when a familiar mop of red hair catches his eye at the brass section of sheet music. He straightens up.

“Taichi-kun!”

Taichi flinches – full-body – and a stab of guilt stakes its way into Sakuya’s chest. Maybe he shouldn’t have called out.

But Taichi turns around, and he’s wearing the biggest, friendliest grin on his face. The fear subsides. The other boy hops around the aisle to Sakuya.

“Hey! I didn’t expect ta see you here, dude!” Taichi offers a fist out. Sakuya stares at it, wondering what he’s supposed to do. There’s a beat before Taichi kind of shakes it. “Fist bump!” Sakuya nervously holds his fist out and taps Taichi’s knuckles with his own. “Yeah!”

“I didn’t expect to see you here, either,” Sakuya offers a smile. “Are you looking for practice books, too?”

“Ah, yeah, sort of! Kind of wanted to see what they had in here, y’know?” Taichi’s gaze glues onto the self-help book. “Woah, is that a technique help book? That’s cool of you!”

“Oh, um, thanks?”

“Haven’t seen one in a while!”

That very distinctly doesn’t make much sense. “Wait, Taichi-kun,” Sakuya frowns, “you’re a beginner, too, right?”

Taichi blinks, then laughs. “Oh, right! Right, yeah. I actually fooled around on clarinet back in the beginning of middle school. I read a lot of these, too. The upperclassmen kind of made fun of me for reading them, though.”

“Oh. Why?”

“Said I was lame or something. Not that it’s lame! I don’t think it’s lame at all. I think it’s cool.” Taichi nods with sudden conviction. “It reads like you’re serious about your instrument.”

Sakuya doesn’t really know how to respond. “Oh, I see.” He wonders if Taichi had been so naturally good on clarinet just like he already is on euphonium and tuba. “I guess I could ask you for tips here and there during lessons, then.”

“Sure!” Taichi beams at him like this is the best news he’s heard all week. Sakuya hopes it is. He likes making people happy. “I’ll give you the Nana-Oh! Secret Tips!”

Sakuya laughs politely. Taichi’s almost like an entirely different person outside of school. It’s refreshing, in a way, in contrast to how quietly Taichi had watched him throughout practice : struggling with his reed and posture.

“So, um, do you come here often?” he asks. A small flush starts to grow on Taichi’s cheeks. It takes a second to figure out why. “Oh!” Sakuya exclaims. “Oh, um! Not like that! Haha. I’m sure that sounded weird, didn’t it? Haha. Um.”

“You’re kinda awkward, aren’tcha?” Taichi asks, good-natured smile playing on his lips.

“Uh, um, yeah I’ve heard so. Sorry.”

“No! Don’t apologize, dude. I getcha. I can be really awkward, too! Case in point, actually, haha.” Taichi nervously smiles. “But, um, I guess I don’t come here too often. I actually live kinda far from school, and there’s a different music store down that way.”

“Oh, that’s nice! I love hanging out in music stores. It’s really relaxing, you know? Maybe one day I’d like to work in one.”

“Like… part time work?”

“Oh, I guess that, too! It’s just that I don’t really plan on college, and I don’t know what else I like other than music, but,” Sakuya laughs, “I don’t think I’m going to get good enough with bass to go into music school. I think that’s for Tsumugi-senpai and Tasuku-senpai.”

Taichi’s frowning, which sets a dense and heavy pit of nervousness deep in Sakuya’s ribcage. He’s waiting for a response, though he can’t imagine what, and every second that passes feels interminably long.

“That’s cool,” Taichi says at last. The small grin on his face doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. I can’t say I relate. But that’s cool.”

“What are you hoping for. After high school?”

Taichi puffs out a breath and ruffles his hair with a hand. “Boy, I don’t really know yet. Something cool, though, definitely. Cool like whatever Takato-senpai does, hopefully! Not sure what’ll it be yet.”

Sakuya nods encouragingly. “Three years is enough time to figure it out!”

Taichi gives him a small smile. “Right?” There’s a small lull. “Well, I should probably get going. It’s kind of late, isn’t it? My little sister will get upset if I miss her bedtime.”

Sakuya’s a little surprised that Taichi’s a big brother. If he had to guess, he would have assumed that the other was an only child.

“Oh, I understand! Stay safe on the streets this late!”

“You, too, dude!”

Sakuya muses on the conversation long after Taichi disappears out the store doors. What must it be like to have siblings? Maybe, he supposes, it’s like having cousins : at least, having cousins that don’t ignore your presence like his do. Then again, it’s not really their fault. It’s his aunt that had instructed them to keep away from him.

There’s a toot from an oboe at the counter. Sakuya glances over and sees Hinamori-san showing off one of the instruments off to a mother and daughter pair at the counter. She’s young enough that she must be in her first year of middle school : intent on joining band. The oboe is traded over the counter for the girl and her mother to observe.

Sakuya decides it’s time he packs up for the day.

Monday comes on little cat feet walking across Izumi’s face at five in the morning exactly : little cat feet that have slipped into the bedroom somehow – inexplicably – despite the closed door. And the little cat feet tell Izumi to get out of bed. Make breakfast now _or else_ , pretty please!

The rest of Monday drudges on impossibly slowly. It’s the sort of Monday that you feel at one o’clock when you can’t believe it’s _only_ one o’clock and that, not even are you only halfway done your day, you’re nowhere near halfway done your work week. Miyoshi brings her a small, odd keychain at the end of his class period. He passes it off as a little souvenir from a weekend outing, where he apparently went to a bunch of karaoke places in different towns along the train line. She’s not exactly sure why he thought to buy her a little keychain (she’s not sure exactly what it’s supposed to be, either, though possibly an ice cream cone), so it remains awkwardly on her makeshift desk, pushed back towards the chalkboard ledge.

Weirdly enough, Tsumugi brings her a small gift, too : a package of tea that he claims his grandmother received one too many of in the mail. She brews it at the end of the day and shares it with the sweet kid when he takes off his last period early to sit and sip with her before band practice.

They talk about pleasant things. She learns, after complaining good-naturedly about her cat’s antics, that Tsumugi has a small dachshund at home, curiously named ‘The Bee,’ who is a small and quiet little fellow that, apparently, Tasuku and Tsumugi have on numerous occasions argued over who could draw him better. This leads to Tsumugi offering a sample of his own drawing, which is little more than a few circles of varying sizes connected together in a hot dog shape. Izumi assures him that it’s likely better than Tasuku’s. She’s not lying, either, since she doubts that Tasuku has artistic inclinations himself.

After the end of sixth period, though, their tranquil tea time ends. Miyoshi comes flying into the band room, holding Ikaruga’s hand tightly, and blasting off greetings to the two of them.

Tsumugi excuses himself gently and fetches his own flute. When Itaru arrives with Guy a few minutes later, the two flutists drift away from the band room with soft smiles and small instrument cases. Guy offers a remarkably formal greeting before getting his trombone. In the meantime, Ikaruga manages to find the triangle from the clutter of percussion in the back. The light and happy jingling of the instrument greets the rest of the band members as they filter in. The general weariness of Monday tones down the even more exuberant energy that her band members normally have.

Sectionals are slowly becoming normalized within the routine of after-school practice (not that they’ve started before-school or weekend practices yet, either). Without explicit instruction, the members sweep each other into different corners of the band room or out of the band room entirely, as Itaru and Tsumugi did earlier and now Sakyo and Guy do.

Sakuya and Taichi practice together, though they’re not grouped together under Izumi’s instruction today. They sit by the windows in the back, stands up against each other, and Taichi seems to be offering Sakuya instruction on embouchure, though Izumi wonders how he would know clarinet techniques himself.

It’s not her business, for now, though. She has Miyoshi and Ikaruga to worry about today : her double percussionists that miss over half of each week due to their other club duties. And, as such, they missed initial sectionals on Thursday and Friday of last week.

First step is to pry Ikaruga off the triangle long enough to introduce the various drums and cymbals. Maybe she’ll just leave the chimes and xylophones to Miyoshi.

“Sumi, hang on. I’ve got an idea coming.”

“Good ideas only!”

“Yeah, yeah, of course!” Izumi watches mutely. “Okay! Good idea : I paint a triangle.”

Ikaruga brightens like the dawn sun breaking over the horizon. “Do it!”

Miyoshi throws Ikaruga a pair of finger guns, which somehow manages to make Ikaruga blush, and starts scribbling something in a notebook that’s draped worryingly across the marimba. Izumi lightly clears her throat.

“Miyoshi-kun, do you usually paint for art club?”

Miyoshi blinks up like he hadn’t expected a question. It lasts a fraction of a moment before a wide grin replaces the look of stupor. “Uh, haha, mostly? I kinda like to do a bit of everything, at least, as much as I can? The last year or so I’ve really been going ham with inkings. Traditional-style, y’know? Like late Edo style, right?” Izumi nods. “Yeah, so that’s what I guess I’m good with. The rest are hobbies.”

“Really?” Izumi asks. “Omi told me a few days ago that you’re always painting.”

“Huh?”

There’s a long pause, and Izumi has to nod for Miyoshi to come back down from whatever thought spiral he had gone down.

“Well, I guess I get that.” Miyoshi laughs. “I’ve got this, like, huge beauty of a banger I’m working on rn. Oil, so I can take my time with it, y’know? I’m usually bent over it during club hours. Not like that, y’know, but like working bent. Haha. Didn’t think Omimi would notice that.”

Izumi wonders what Miyoshi’s internal monologue must sound like on a daily basis. Ikaruga smiles and jingles the triangle a bit more.

“Actually,” Miyoshi starts, more nervously than before, “I’ve been thinking about doing my portfolio on music. You know?”

Ikaruga nearly drops the triangle. “Kazu, no.”

“Huh?”

“No.”

Miyoshi stares at Ikaruga, and Izumi glances between the two of them. Ikaruga’s frowning, which is an expression that Izumi doesn’t think she’s seen on his face before. It’s an intimidating expression on such a cheerful kid. Miyoshi seems intimidated, too, if the small wobble in his lip is to be taken as such.

“I don’t want you to do your portfolio on music.”

“Sumi,” Miyoshi tries to smile. “That’s… that’s not really up to you, y’know?”

Ikaruga’s frown deepens. “Kazu always gets distracted by art. Kazu gets distracted while triangle hunting. Kazu wants to draw the triangles, not walk around and talk about them.”

Triangle hunting? Like the instrument? Izumi keeps quiet.

“No, Sumi, I love triangle hunting. I’m just. I don’t know. I see a triangle and it’s like blam and then I wanna draw it. Kinda like. I don’t know. I wanna give it to you, but I also can’t steal it. So I try to give it to you in a way I can actually do.”

“But Kazu gets _too_ distracted. I wanna look at other things, too.”

“… I’m sorry.”

“Then, no music art.”

Miyoshi bites his lip. “Okay,” he agrees at length. “Okay, no music art.”

Ikaruga visibly relaxes. He softly begins to chime the triangle once more. “Good. I want Kazu to stay with me in band.”

“I’m gonna, Sumi.”

Izumi’s still thinking about Miyoshi and Ikaruga when she goes to pick up an order of clarinet reeds from the music store two train stops from her neighborhood. She wonders what she could say to Miyoshi to help him : if she should say anything. So many of her band members seem to have some kind of trouble in their relationships with other band members. She’s genuinely concerned that she won’t be able to keep the band together by the start of the winter break.

Even if she does, they may not come back next year.

And while, theoretically, the band club’s status and size is important to both her and the school, in truth, she’s really more concerned about her students themselves. Whatever is between Tsumugi and Tasuku (a new development seemingly with Chigasaki at its heart), Miyoshi and Ikaruga, and whatever’s going on in the trumpet section, she wants to make sure that the students don’t end up hating each other over high school drama. She’s been there, and it’s not a thing to get hurt over.

She sighs and pulls open the music store’s door.

The small bell jingles above her head, and she’s greeted with a friendly welcome from the man at the counter, who seems to be the only on-floor employee for the night. She glances around the place. It’s been a bit since she’s last been in, and there are a few new display instruments. The acoustic guitars in the corner are new, at least. It’s a shame she never had much luck on the strings.

It’s on her way to the counter that a familiar mix of red-and-black hair catches her attention over by the brass instruments. She’s halfway to raising her hand and calling Taichi over when she recognizes the book in his hands. It’s an arrangement book of different pieces from a well-loved film score composer – Kuryuu Zen – and is _decidedly_ in the intermediate level of playing : not even beginner-intermediate. She pauses and squints to make sure she’s not wrong.

Sure enough, in the small corner of the glossy front cover, the word ‘Intermediate’ sits in bold font. It’s a euphonium booklet, too.

She tries to emotionally step back from the issue. Taichi could very well be reviewing what more advanced material will look like for his instrument as a sort of curiosity venture. It isn’t as if there aren’t also beginner’s books on the shelf over there. Perhaps it’s music he’s familiar with and thus seems more enticing than the beginner’s practice books : full of ‘Hot Cross Buns’ and ‘Peer Gynt.’

But the nagging suspicion in her mind brings to the foreground Taichi’s confidence in sectionals, his tips to Sakuya, his ease in cleaning his tuba and euphonium last Monday. There’s really no other explanation other than he’s been playing the two instruments for years.

But it’s late – nearly seven in the evening – and she has to get home soon to shower and make dinner before bedtime. It is a school night, after all. So, she frees herself from the bit of floor she’s been standing for the last few seconds and continues on her way to the counter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i probably should've mentioned this earlier but my Original Plan was to have all names start as last names and transition to first names once izumi's spent a significant amount of time with the characters. this, unfortunately, has only resulted in me forgetting who is Established and who isn't, so please ignore any inconsistences orz
> 
> izumi, whenever idk how to make a scene transititon : "time for tea!"  
> me, irl, whenever i dont wanna do my work : "hehe time for tea"


	7. third years, arts club pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hisohoma entrance, taichi knowing moonlight sonata on intermediate tuba, fuyu queer friend group, the Art Club (or the beginning of), and banri back with a vengeance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay another chapter!! i want nothing more than get another chapter out by sunday, and i think i might actually be able to!!!! i want to do as much as i can now before finals season hits ;-; i adore fuyu poly more than literally anything, and having all my fuyus be third-years (plus sakyo) makes me :))) it's called being Sophisticated (jkjk) old gay ppl <3
> 
> uhh tw // transphobia (mentioned regarding homare)

The crisp air of the empty halls is cold on Tsumugi’s hands like the metal of his flute. He holds his hands together gently to keep them warmed. His fingers are quick on a flute’s keys, but even his knuckles ache and weaken under cold air. He and Itaru are moving into eighth notes during sectionals today, and he wants to keep his hands warm in order to deftly go through eighth note and sixteenth note scales. A quiet voice in his mind will privately admit, and Tsumugi blushes if he lingers too much on the thought, that he’d like to impress Itaru with his playing, somehow, if that’s possible.

He suppresses a small shiver and walks into the boy’s bathroom. As he walks through the doorway, he nearly walks straight into another student. He blinks at the skirt before his confusion melts away.

“Oh, goodness, Tsumugi-kun, I hadn’t meant to come so close to knocking into you! Please excuse my poor manners!”

Tsumugi blinks up at Homare and relaxes. “Oh, I’m sorry, too!” He moves over to the side a bit, and they awkwardly linger in the doorway together. “We haven’t talked in a while.”

“Indeed we haven’t! I understand that you and dear Tasuku-kun are in the band club this year as well. Marvelous that it’s still going strong.”

“Band club has been rather nice this year. We’ve a lot of new recruits, actually, so we get to do more learning and teaching. I have one new recruit in the flute section, at least.”

Homare nods sagely. “Yes, yes, to be a mentor is the greatest gift of all.”

“What about your clubs?”

Homare hums quietly. It’s a small and sad sound that drops gracelessly onto the bathroom’s tiled floors. “I’m afraid to say I don’t have any clubs anymore. They were all, ah, disinclined to retain my membership. On account of last year, you see.”

“Oh. All of them?”

“In different ways, but yes. First it was the debate club. They informed me that, with some debate topics including, as they termed it, _complicated_ social issues, I may no longer feel comfortable in the club. The unspoken implication, of course, was that they were not inclined to restructure the simply offensive structure of their club upon learning that the very identities they argue do not deserve rights are sitting right beside them.”

“Oh. Homare-kun, I-”

“Then was the choir club, which I saw coming, if I must be honest. I do not believe that the choir instructor particularly enjoyed seeing dear Hisoka-kun routinely pick me up from our after-school practices.”

“… Oh.”

“And, the one that truly hurt, was that they disbanded my poetry club on account of careless leadership. Alas, I believe they fail to remember that Shakespeare himself enjoyed a gay one with his little fellow twinks.”

There’s a small part of Tsumugi that knows that it’s a joke, and that he should chuckle a little at the phrasing. But the words feel too heavy, and Tsumugi’s heart is burdened with a hard-to-bear pain.

“Homare-kun, I’m so sorry. I wish… I wish the rest of us had supported you even more than we did.”

“Nonsense! Your support gave me wings enough to fly out of that horrid situation. It is not your fault that so many doors are suddenly closed to me. But that is fine! I can sing and read poetry by myself just fine, and I can outwit anyone who speaks with me!”

“That… is true,” Tsumugi bites his lip. “How is Hisoka-kun doing? I haven’t spoken with him lately, either.”

“My darling sweet marshmallow is cranky and sleepy as always. His new medication has helped with his exhaustion, thank goodness, though. He stays awake most of the day now.”

“Oh, wow, that doesn’t sound like Hisoka-kun at all.”

“Indeed! He is like a new person : metamorphosed into a brilliant version of himself. I do believe he is also secretly thankful, though he complains at length of missing his naps.”

“I’m happy for him.”

“Why, I shall pass along those well wishes. How is the new band director, by the way? I hate to keep you longer, but I really am curious. I know how grumpy Tasuku-kun was all last winter over the matter.”

Tsumugi thinks on how to describe what band is like. Everything is so different now from the faces to the routines.

“It’s warmer,” he says. “The director, she prefers to be referred to as just such, is a very… welcoming person. She’s a lesbian, actually. We didn’t realize at first, but she mentioned it one day, and we all asked her.”

“Really?”

“It really is wonderful. I, um, I know that you must be keeping busy with your own hobbies, but if you ever wanted to join us, you wouldn’t be the only trans person in the band, either. Citron – one of our trumpets – is just like you, actually. And… well, most of our new recruits seem to be like-minded about,” Tsumugi blushes, “well, romantic things, I guess you could say.”

“Truly?”

Tsumugi nods. “Um, well, Itaru-san is the new flutist, and, um, well, he, I, um,” he can feel his face burning, “well, I mean, we, um, I-”

“Tsumugi-kun,” Homare interrupts, leaning in with a wide-eyed expression, “you do not mean to tell me that you have found a lover?”

Tsumugi’s hands and face are burning. “No! Not lover, oh, um.” He plays with the hair at the nape of his neck to help him calm down. “But, um, he’s really sweet, and I think he likes me, and, well, our time together is… fun. He’s a pleasant person.”

“And Tasuku-kun?”

“Oh.”

Tsumugi honestly can’t say he’s thought much about Tasuku’s thoughts on the matter yet. Just a few days ago he had been at Tasuku’s grandparents’ place far out along the train line into the beginnings of the countryside. They were sweet people, though Tsumugi still loved his grandmother a bit more, and they had ended up spending the night.

As usual, they had shared the small, single-person futon that they had shared since childhood : pressed up against each other in the small guest room with the small soccer-shaped nightlight glowing in the corner of the room. Tasuku’s like a natural heater. And Tsumugi naturally runs cold. But falling asleep wrapped up around each other hadn’t felt romantic like it had back in middle school with hot faces and sweaty palms. It seemed normal now.

A lot of what they did seemed normal now. And if it didn’t feel normal, then it felt strained. Tsumugi’s not sure if he and Tasuku are necessarily meant to stay together into adulthood.

“I haven’t talked to Tasuku about it,” is how he condenses his answer. “I think we’re losing… that… spark. I remember I couldn’t be within a foot of him without having my heart nearly beat out of my chest, and it doesn’t feel like that anymore. So, I suppose with Itaru-san, it’s nostalgic and sweet.”

Homare hums. “Hisoka and I never had that early lovers’ nervousness.”

“Ah, well, isn’t that perhaps because the two of you aren’t interested in-” Tsumugi realizes he can’t quite say the word aloud, “-um, well, that sort of thing.”

“Alas, perhaps. I would not worry, my dear Tsumugi-kun. The literature of the romance genre would advise that you have found true, domestic love : the Eden of paradise past the temptations of the honeymoon phase.”

Tsumugi smiles politely. “Perhaps.”

They lull. “Well, I suppose I’ll think upon joining the band,” Homare muses. “Of course, Hisoka-kun will accompany me if I so incline to do so. With all his newfound wakefulness, I’m sure he will appreciate a new thing to occupy himself with.”

“If you do, we’d all be happy to have you.”

“Ah, my thanks, Tsumugi-kun. You are always like an angel sent from the heavens. If you told me that God is real, I would become a believer.”

Tsumugi laughs.

Footsteps skip down the hall in a joyous little tempo. Homare skips down the hallway, clicking out a little tune with hits of his tongue tip on the roof of his mouth, tapping his hands on his thighs in a separate rhythm to match. His footsteps perfectly match the beat.

Hisoka watches Homare carefully from his position a few steps back. His own steps have a much slower gait to them and no mirthful melody. It’s been a few months since he’s seen Homare so genuinely peppy. Homare is poor at hiding his emotions. Famously, actually, if you talked to anyone regarding him. The months since the incident have seen Homare moping about the classroom and religiously consuming romantic poetry but only the saddest in the genre.

To see him hopping down the hallway with his usual exuberant and almost overwhelming energy, Hisoka’s not sure if he has a headache brewing or if he’s genuinely relieved. It’s probably both.

He _is_ thankful that Homare had run into Tsumugi earlier than week. Whatever Tsumugi had said in that conversation had lit something in Homare’s heart. When Homare had come to him, begging him to join the band club, it had been so uncharacteristic of his now-usual mood that Hisoka had accepted without thinking it through. Now, he has an obligation to learn an entire instrument.

He hopes his medication gives him energy enough for this.

Homare slides the door to the band room open with a sharp snap. Hisoka eyes the pile of school shoes at the entrance and toes his own off alongside Homare.

“We have arrived!” Homare cheers and sweeps inside : loud personality and all. A chorus of welcomes answers.

Hisoka enters after a moment’s composure. The band room isn’t quite what he had expected. For whatever reason, he had almost expected an orderly club with members in their chairs – in two maybe three rows – with their music on their stands and instruments at the ready. Instead, there’s Tsumugi in a corner cuddling with some boy Hisoka doesn’t know, Tasuku with his shirt half-off, another boy being the person in question to be tugging it off, an assorted group of first years all wielding trumpets and still mid-argument, and a few other members practicing homework problems rather than their music. Sakyo and another student are the only ones working on music of their own volition.

Homare has already situated himself in the middle of the trumpet drama, to the displeasure of seemingly all three. Tsumugi breaks away from the boy he’s with to intervene.

The director, whom Hisoka has heard prefers to only be addressed as such, is holding a clumsy-looking instrument in the middle row with a pink-haired boy and has only offered them a frazzled wave in between a demonstration. Hisoka’s eyes meet Tasuku’s, and he floats over to the man.

The boy with Tasuku pulls his hands away from Tasuku’s shirt and laughs boisterously. Hisoka barely refrains from grimacing. Whatever doubt there had been only a minute ago as to his headache is now definite ; he has a headache.

“Whoopsies! Heya! I’m Miyoshi Kazunari, but you can call me whatever you like. Your hair’s totes hot! I bet you get the ladies going, amirite.”

Hisoka looks down to Tasuku.

“Ignore him,” Tasuku sighs. “Actually, ignore everyone here. Do you have Advil?”

“Tylenol, maybe.” Hisoka rifles through his school bag. “Aunt tells me it’s bad for me to take pain meds along with the other ones, but there’s only so much Alice I can handle without it.” He finds the container and hands it over to Tasuku.

Tasuku shakes the bottle to confirm the pills inside and shakes two out. He hands the container back to Hisoka.

“Woah,” Miyoshi enthuses. “That’s like hardcore. Are you a druggie?” Hisoka makes a face. “No judging! I always wanted to try painting high. Apparently you paint, like, really bad, but it feels super good.”

“My meds don’t make me high,” Hisoka deigns to reply. “They make me less tired.”

“Ohhhhh gotcha gotcha.”

Hisoka turns back to Tasuku. Tasuku shrugs.

“Kinda surprised you joined,” Tasuku admits. The sax rests in his lap, and Hisoka takes a seat, seeing as Tasuku’s in the mood to talk rather than play. “Didn’t think Homare’d convince you to spend even more of your time at school.”

“Eh. The new meds work mostly. I figured why not.”

Miyoshi decides to pipe up again. “Are you and Homare, like, dating?”

Hisoka glares, and Miyoshi backs off a little. Then, he immediately asks Tasuku the same question. Tasuku sighs.

“Keep your nose out of others’ business.”

“No, yeah, I totes get it. But like. Really, are they dating?”

“I just said-”

“Yeah, but we’re all gay here. I think, anyways? I’m not super sure about Taichi, actually.”

“You’re not gay, Miyoshi, you’re bi.”

Miyoshi shrugs. “Hot people, amirite?”

Hisoka cannot believe that this is what a band club counts as. He looks over once more to where Homare is. He and one of the trumpeters – a foreign exchange student, clearly – are now discussing in a very odd conversation which work of Shakespeare’s is his greatest. Apparently, Homare's current favorite is _Othello_ – though last week it had been _Merchant of Venice_ – and the trumpeter’s _King Lear_.

He contemplates putting his head down for a little. Tasuku and Miyoshi argue over whether or not Miyoshi can see Tasuku’s “totally rad!!” abs.

“Come on, Tax, man! You got an absolute baker’s rack under there. Just a little peeky, pretty please-y?”

“What are you even saying?”

“I am respectfully asking to see your massively ripped abdomen.”

“Are you speaking Japanese? Are we speaking the same language?”

“Totes, bro. Please?”

“No.”

“But-”

“No. If you want to see abs, you have a phone.”

Miyoshi pouts. “But I can’t touch them.”

“Ikaruga’s on the track team, isn’t he? I’m sure he’s plenty muscular.”

Miyoshi’s lips perk up into a mischievous grin. “Super love the assumption that Sumi lets me touch wherever I like.” Tasuku deadpans when Miyoshi winks at him. “And while, yeah, he totes would, he doesn’t have abs like _yours_ , Tax. Where’d you get them?”

“The ab market. Can you go back to the percussion section?”

Hisoka cracks a grin at Tasuku’s attempt at sarcasm. If Tsumugi were here, he’d be giggling for the next five minutes. But Tsumugi’s floated back over to his fellow flutist : that pretty blonde boy who is almost certainly wearing lipstick. No one’s lips are naturally that pink. He wonders how Tasuku feels about this recent re-distribution of Tsumugi’s attention.

“Miyoshi!” the director calls. She’s putting down her instrument and coming over. “Shouldn’t you be practicing? If you’re going to blow off art club, at least practice when you come to band club.”

“Sorry!” Miyoshi chirps. He jumps to his feet. “Later, Tax. Introduce me to the loud one next time, okaysies?”

Tasuku scoffs, but Miyoshi’s already started to pester Sakyo in the row behind them. The director reaches Tasuku and Hisoka’s chairs. She sits down in one near them, and leans on the backrest.

“So, kid, you’re one of the two newcomers?” she asks Hisoka. He nods quietly. “That’s great! I was so excited when Tsumugi told me that you and Arisugawa-kun would be joining us. Since we’re already into the third week of the school year, I thought we wouldn’t get any more new members. It’s so nice to be proven wrong!”

Hisoka mutely nods.

“So, you have any previous experience with instruments? Or music, if you’re not into instrument-playing.”

“Not really,” Hisoka thinks about it. He can’t say he’s ever been particularly interested in music at all. He doesn’t even listen to it when in the car unless his aunt puts it on. “Sorry I don’t have much to bring to the club.”

“That’s alright!” she reassures. “We welcome newbies with open arms! Half of our new recruits were completely new to band. Did you have an idea as to which instrument you’d like to play?”

Hisoka looks out on the array of students in the room. The options don’t look inviting.

He could choose flute to be with Tsumugi, he supposes, but there’s also that cute boy that seems _too_ innocent and pretty. If Hisoka’s learned anything about dealing with fake people, then that boy is hiding something. He doesn’t want to be around for the drama when Tsumugi gets hurt and Tasuku gets defensive.

He could choose whatever instrument the director and the first-year were just practicing, but it looks too unwieldly to be easy. He could choose sax to stay with Tasuku, but he’d assume the same thing as to the saxophone’s difficulty. Too many keys.

The trumpet’s too loud, and Hisoka’s not keen on working with Sakyo for trombone.

He shrugs. “I suppose not. I can try playing whatever there isn’t enough of.”

The director hums. “Well, how about saxophone or clarinet? Tasuku’s our only saxophonist here, and, since you’re friends with him, that might make things easier. But if you’re not feeling saxophone, we also only have one clarinetist. Fushimi-kun’s not here today, but he’s extremely kind and good with his instrument, too.”

Hisoka shares a look with Tasuku. He raises an eyebrow. _Which should I go with?_ It’s so easy to communicate with Tasuku without having to speak.

Tasuku takes a moment to think about it. Then, he opens his mouth.

It ends up that Hisoka favors clarinet as his choice of instrument, and Homare, in all his exuberance and insistence on individuality, claims solo French horn in the band.

Little happens throughout the rest of band practice. The director takes some time with Hisoka and Homare, showing them the basics of their instrument’s maintenance and handing them a practice book and techniques booklet each for their practicing needs. They spend a half hour going through the first two pages of said practice book, and Hisoka learns that he hadn’t even come close to fathoming how difficult a clarinet embouchure is to hold.

According to the director, Homare’s French horn is one of the harder instruments for beginners to pick up, and this information makes Homare swell with pride for his ‘originality’ in his ‘beginner’s intuition,’ though Hisoka’s not exactly sure what Homare means by that. It’s better than a poem, at the very least.

Hisoka talks with Tsumugi for a small bit towards the end of practice once the director’s done instructing him and Homare. She sweeps off to help Sakyo and his fellow trombonist with whatever issue they’re having. As a result, Hisoka meets Chigasaki Itaru. He also meets the bass clarinetist Sakuya. Of the two, he decides that he likes Sakuya much more.

It isn’t until after practice has ended that Tasuku and Tsumugi corner him by the school gates. Homare’s already left in a hurry with an excuse about having to be home as soon as possible on account of his grandparents’ scrutiny.

Tsumugi sits on the small pavement of the half-wall along the school gate. His school bag rests between his legs. Tasuku stands beside him, hunching a little, arms crossed. There’s more space in between them than there usually is. It’s an odd sight to see them apart.

Hisoka eyes the space.

“How’s Homare doing?” Tsumugi asks in a quiet voice. His hands are in his lap. “Really.”

“He’s doing alright, I suppose.”

Tasuku shifts. “You can tell us,” he encourages. “I don’t… understand him a lot of the time, but I still want to know how he’s doing. Do you know how his grandparents are handling this?”

“They’re being as cruel as you could imagine.” Tsumugi’s face crumples. Hisoka doesn’t know how much Homare would be comfortable with them knowing, but he continues, “It’s better than it was the first few weeks. He’s eating and studying and sleeping well now. He’s… doing well. It’s just quiet sometimes, here and there.”

Tsumugi and Tasuku share a slow glance.

“Don’t worry about him. He’s taking care of himself, and I’m filling in when things slip.”

Tsumugi looks away from Tasuku first. He adjusts his hands in his lap. “Isn’t he going to argue for a boy’s uniform?” Tsumugi asks. “Citron isn’t expected to wear a girl’s uniform. Maybe Homare-kun could use that. The director would argue for him, too, since he’s in band now. It could help him feel better.”

“I don’t think Alice wants attention from administration ever again.”

Tsumugi chews his lip : crestfallen. He leans a little into Tasuku. Tasuku leans a little into him. Hisoka relaxes a little at the familiar sight. At least they haven’t completely separated.

“Is there anything we can do?” Tasuku asks.

It’s a kind question. But the best thing for Homare, Hisoka thinks, is to be treated as if there’s almost nothing wrong : as if his poetry and exuberance are still the most notable aspects of himself. Personal healing comes before social healing, and personal healing cannot occur in a fragile environment. In a sense, Hisoka supposes, joining band club was one of the best things Homare could have done for himself.

So, he shakes his head. “No, I don’t think he’d like to be treated any differently than we always have.”

Tsumugi nods slowly. “Alright. But if anything happens, let us know?”

“We’re in this together,” Tasuku affirms.

Tsumugi looks up to Tasuku and smiles softly. He reaches out and slips a hand into Tasuku’s palm. Tasuku startles but, after a slight moment, holds Tsumugi’s hand back. Hisoka wonders if Homare’s already home or if he’s still walking.

“Got it.”

Izumi sets her tuba down and blows a few raspberries on her lips to soften them from the tenseness of her embouchure. She turns to Taichi, who’s been fingering along with her playing for the song.

“So, think you wanna give it a shot?”

He hums at the beginner’s copy of _Midnight Sonata_. “Um,” his fingers don’t leave the keys. “Director, I.”

He seems to mull something over. Izumi waits patiently.

“Isn’t this piece advanced for where the band’s at?”

“What makes you say that?”

He crumbles a little on himself. “Well, it’s just, these notes are kinda high, right? And while I… might be able to play them, I don’t know if some of the others might be here, too. And we’re a band, right?” Izumi keeps a straight face and watches him fumble. “So, I don’t know.”

“Taichi-kun, you can play this, can’t you?”

Silence. Then, “Yes.”

“And if I gave you an intermediate copy of this song, you’d be able to play it, wouldn’t you?”

“… Yes.”

“ _Moonlight Sonata_ is a relatively difficult song, you realize this?”

“… Yes.”

Izumi waits. She wants Taichi to just admit that he’s been playing much longer than he has. Because she has no idea why _this_ is something that a first-year cares so much about. After all, their band is small and unimpressive. Yet, there are also members with talent enough to go into music school. Being somewhere in the middle isn’t a problem for anyone. And yet Taichi sits silently.

Well, she’ll leave it here for the day. She pulls out the intermediate booklet and sets it down on the stand : on top of the beginner’s copy. She thumbs to the correct page. “Then, shall we play it together?”

Taichi frowns, as if he was expecting something different, as if he’s been disappointed. But then he nods and raises the mouthpiece to his lips. Izumi follows suit. Inhale : play.

The canvas on the easel doesn’t like Omi today, apparently. He manages to blend a bit of the yellow in too watery, and it drips and melts right into the paler creams he’s already spent time blending at the top. He sighs and considers trying out for a different style entirely for the piece.

Kazunari glances up from his palette. He’s managed to get a bit of the red paints on his face already : fifteen minutes into their art period.

“You don’t sigh often, Omimi. Somethin’ up?”

Their classmates around them are chattering loud enough that it’s not an uncomfortable and noticeable question. Omi counts his thanks that Kazunari know when to speak quietly and can do so as skillfully as he can rile up the class with raucous laughter. He uses the end of his paintbrush to mix a new warm color.

“Just tired,” he answers and resituates how he’s about to tackle this portrait. “You know how things go sometimes.”

“Yeah, I hear ya,” Kazunari has now started sticking his tongue out. Omi’s not sure for what, but he admires the display of effort. “My little sis last night, oh em gee, get this, Omimi, my sis, Futaba, y’know, she decided that she wanted to paint. So she goes into my paint collection, right? And she blended _oils_ with _acrylics_. I was so angry, haha! I took her out buy a new set of watercolors afterwards when she promised to never touch my paints again.”

Omi laughs. “I always forget you’re an older sibling.”

Kazunari winks at him. “Kinda hard to forget you’re an older sibling. You’re, like, a mom practically.” He glances at his palette. “Do you want red hair or brown?”

“Uh, red could be nice. Are we talking Nanao-kun red or Arisugawa-san red?”

“Ohhh, hadn’t thought of Taichi-kun. I was kinda thinking like a burnt sepia mixed with burgundy. Like a warm bowl of minestrone soup.”

Omi thinks on it. “What about French Onion soup?”

“Manhattan clam chowder.”

“Lentil soup.”

“Coming right up, Mom.”

Omi chuckles and starts in on the clothing. He’s chosen to paint Kazunari in the bright blue jacket he wears in the mornings before shoving it into his locker. As such, his palette looks like an overly-saturated video game landscape what with the yellows, beiges, greens, and blues. Perhaps he should add a softening accent color somewhere : maybe pink. He’ll have to decide soon.

“So, how’s soccer club going? Did you really quit?”

Omi tries to figure out how wrinkles in clothing work. Maybe he should try a different stroke direction. “Unfortunately, I felt like I had to. Our coach,” he remembers he’s in a classroom and glances around to make sure no one’s watching, “well, I disagreed with our coach.”

“‘Cause of that middle schooler, right? The whole,” Kazunari pulls himself away from his canvas long enough to do a vague wave before returning to painting Omi’s portrait.

Omi sighs. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Hey, man, don’t be down about it! That was a smart move. I’m sure some of the other band people feel cooler being themselves around you, knowing that. I’m sure the director does.”

“Yeah, I suppose all things work out in the end.”

They continue to paint each other in silence. It’s nice to be able to partner up with a fellow art student in class during art period. It lends a certain focus to the way the pieces come out : sometimes playful, sometimes serious. Kazunari, Omi’s learned, has a brilliant way of making all his art distinctly _fun_ in some way or other.

Last year, Kazunari had spent all year pouring over an acrylic painting in the back of the art classroom. The big reveal in early March had been that he had been painting with the intention to use every color he could possibly mix with the school’s acrylic supplies. He had chosen to paint a summer festival scene : a fishbowl game where the water’s pebbles at the bottom flashed colors throughout the water and reflected upon the shining scales of the goldfish. Their club supervisor had encouraged Kazunari to enter a competition with the piece, and he had returned from a Yokohama competition with a 1st place ribbon.

In Omi’s eyes, and in the eyes of their club members, Kazunari’s guaranteed to pass into a good art school. But Omi, and Misumi, know that Kazunari has his heart set on Tama University’s Painting department.

And Tama’s entrance exams, along with their portfolio expectations, are rather high. The question isn’t whether or not Kazunari is talented enough to get it but rather if he will finish his portfolio in time with the materials he’d like. And, if they’re all being honest, if he and his family will be able to afford to fund Kazunari through graduate school once the undergraduate is over.

“So, like, how’s the fam?”

Omi blinks, and the paintbrush falls a little in his hand. He makes another smudge. He glances over the canvas over to Kazunari, who’s still painting but spares a small glance and smile for Omi.

“The… my family?”

“Yeah!”

“Oh, they’re doing well. I think father’s starting to think about retiring, so I may take up a job soon.”

“That bad?”

Omi hesitates. Surrounded by their classmates, he’s not willing to say anything that would reflect poorly on his father or himself. “Not bad. Just a change, like all other things in life.”

Kazunari lowers his paintbrush and peeks over his canvas at him, assessing him. Omi masks his discomfort by starting in on the greens he’s mixed on his palette. Kazunari remains like that for a while, until their art teacher starts walking over.

“Miyoshi! Your paintbrush is for painting, not drying. Study your subject _while_ you paint, otherwise the acrylics will go hard.”

Kazunari flinches. “Yep, yep!” His paintbrush furiously mixes his paints around before resuming its task.

It’s the middle of the night, and the nighttime breezes of spring’s midnight blow right through the streets. Spring nights aren’t usually cold unless the winter clings close, and tonight is more brisk than chilly, too. The moon watches from hidden amongst the branches of the street-side trees. Banri would rather be _anywhere_ else in Veludo if it meant not being _here_.

He stares up at the house where he knows Hyodo is fast asleep and his mother and brother, too. He has a lot of memories of this house.

The first time he came to the Hyodo family’s residence had been all the way back in his second-to-last year of elementary school. If he really thinks back, it had been during summer vacation. Banri had scraped his knee fighting with Hyodo in the riverbank on a sharp bit of broken glass, and Hyodo had declared that he wanted a popsicle before dragging Banri by the arm back to his house. Of course, when they arrived, Hyodo’s mom had been quick to patch Banri up : all while Juza sucked at a strawberry popsicle and watched carefully.

After that, they had just started going back to Hyodo’s place after playing out and after fights. It hadn’t mattered, back then, if it had been a good day or a bad day between the two of them. Fights were kind of fun back then. They could wrestle each other in the river and not get scrutinized for anything other than being two rowdy little boys playing where they shouldn’t. It’s not like they could shove each other around in the arcade, less they’d get scolded by the employees. And between getting to shove each other around and having to keep their hands to themselves, both Hyodo and Banri had opted more often for the former.

Back then, they didn’t have to worry about arguments in the snowy weather and painful insults and half-truths. Banri can’t even remember half of what he had said in back in February : can’t remember what started this new antagonism between them.

But he won’t forget the three years of silence that he had suffered through at Kosusaki Private Junior High. Because, apparently, he hadn’t been important enough for a letter. Not even a single phone call. Meeting Hyodo and his mom outside the pastry shop, and Hyodo barely reacting to seeing him after three years, had really done it in.

Hyodo has it easier than Banri can really even admit to understanding. All he knows is that he’s never seen Hyodo Juuko raise her voice, let alone shame either of her sons, and both of her sons are pretty fucking stupid. And Banri _hates_ Hyodo for that. How _dare_ Hyodo forget about him all while enjoying such a nice and cozy and _easy_ life?

Banri grits his teeth as he picks up a pebble from the ditch.

There’s no use in getting angry right now. It’s past midnight, and he hasn’t showered in two days. He’s also hungry – having finally run out of the money he stole from his sister’s wallet while leaving – and in need of an actual bed to sleep in rather than the park bench. But he refuses to go home and get talked to again about grades and presentation and all those things that make him look good for his parents rather than actually help his well-being. So, he readies his arm and pitches the small stone at Hyodo’s window.

He’s not expecting Hyodo to wake up quickly. The times they had shared a sleepover, Banri had the unfortunate opportunity to learn that Hyodo was one of the worst people on the planet for teeth grinding and snoring. So much so that Hyodo’s dentist had sent him home with a plastic teeth guard for the nights back in their last year of elementary school.

Back then, Banri had thought it was pretty funny. Every time Hyodo had it in his mouth, he ended up having a hell of a lisp to talk through, and he already needed speech therapy from their elementary school in order to help him pronounce his ‘sh,’ ‘s,’ and ‘ch’ sounds.

Now, it’s just fucking annoying because it means Banri’s going to be standing in the street for some time before the idiot wakes up.

Sure enough, it takes what feels like hours for a light to turn on. He hurls a last pebble at the window for good measure.

Hyodo’s silhouette moves to the window and rips back the curtains. Banri can see his face in the soft, yellow light of the bedside lamp (Banri wonders if it’s still the old baseball lamp that Kumon had replaced with a newer, cooler baseball lamp while giving the old one to his big brother). Hyodo’s scowling, and, combined with the remainders of sleep still paralyzing half his facial features, it’s intimidating as hell.

He undoes the window latch and pushes the pane to the side.

“Shettshu?”

Oh, he still has the retainer. Banri grins wide. “Yeah, it’sh me.”

Hyodo scowls further at the teasing and rips his retainer out. “The hell are you doing here?”

“Uh, it’s kinda cold? Let me in.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Uh. We used to be friends?”

“You’ve been following after me for weeks trying to get in a fight. We ain’t friends.”

“And whose fault is that?” Banri snaps. He regrets it when he sees the confusion set into Hyodo’s face. “Forget about it. Fuck. Just let me in, okay? I wanna shower.”

“Go home?”

“Fuck no. Let me in.”

Hyodo gives him a weird look and closes the window. The curtains fall back into place, and the light in the bedroom clicks off. Banri feels a flare of anger. Did that bastard just say _no_ without even saying it? He’s about to hop the gate and break his own way in, but the front door opens. Hyodo comes over to the gate and unlocks it.

“Better have a good reason for coming here. Mom and Kumon are sleeping.”

“Don’t need a reason.”

He’s roughly shoved against the wall by the gate latch. Hyodo holds him there with a firm grip. Banri tries kicking his way out, but he’s rewarded with a heavy hand on his throat. Banri immediately stops breathing. His eyes meet Hyodo’s.

“I mean it, Settsu. I don’t want you here.”

“Yeah, you made it pretty well-known,” Banri bites back. “Incapable of being courteous to old friends, aren’tcha?”

“What do you want?”

“To wash my hair and piss somewhere that _isn’t_ a park bush. Now can you get your hand off my fucking throat?”

Hyodo lets him go and turns instead to close the gate latch. Banri rubs at his throat. Damn, Hyodo had a strong grip. They file into the house one after the other, kicking off their shoes at the door.

“I mean it,” Hyodo whispers. “Don’t wake them up.”

“Chist, you’re anal about something that doesn’t even matter.”

“Don’t wanna cause them trouble.”

Banri frowns in confusion, but Hyodo just shrugs and walks further into the house. Banri hesitates before following after. Suddenly, things feel a little different.

The house is the same as Banri remembers it. There’s the metal grate around the space heater in the kitchen, and the kitchen table already has the dishes and glasses out for a quick breakfast once morning comes. Family photos line the wall by the mini-desk by the doorway. The air still smells like warm bread and something sweet but also like that distinct scent of potpourri that Banri has only ever smelled in the Hyodo household.

“You know where everything is,” Hyodo leads them upstairs. “I’m going back to bed. Lock the gate when you leave.”

“Not even gonna extend the offer of a futon for the night?”

Hyodo shoots him a glare. “I already said my piece. You’re not welcome. Do what you gotta do, and get the hell out.”

Banri scoffs, but Hyodo turning around and disappearing into his bedroom makes his chest ache with an emotion that he will _not_ give a name to. He moves over to the bathroom and locks the door behind him before turning on the lights.

Seeing himself in the mirror is an odd thing. He’s not used to seeing his hair this close to greasy, nor his skin this dirty. He wonders if Hyodo even has skincare shit that he can use. He turns the shower on to warm and sets to stripping himself of his clothes. He wonders if he can slip downstairs to the washer and throw his clothes in. Either way, he’ll end up wearing the same boxers. His lip curls in disgust.

He ends up risking the entire trip back to the bathroom buck naked.

The hot shower water feels great on his skin, and he watches the dirt spiral down the drain. He longs for a hot bath to follow up the shower with, but he refrains. Instead, he grabs the towel off the rack where Hyodo used to hang his (Banri fucking hopes the family hadn’t switched up who uses which towel rung. He likes Hyodo’s mom but does _not_ want to share a towel with her.). A trip down to the washer has him throw his clothes into the dryer and make another trip back upstairs.

He’s not sure why he decides to wait the next twenty-four minutes of the dryer cycle in Hyodo’s room. Hyodo’s already fallen back asleep, and his snores fill the room as Banri enters it. He’s got his retainer in, too, because the sound of grinding teeth isn’t present.

Banri finds himself roaming Hyodo’s room.

Three years has changed some things, apparently. In his head, it makes sense for Hyodo’s room to be different. They spent all of their middle school years not knowing each other. They barely know each other now. But seeing things gone and new things there, it’s… odd.

There’s an entire new bookshelf, for example, full of things that Banri had never known Hyodo to be into. There’s so much music on it. The entire top four shelves are nothing but CD jewel cases for a wide range of music, though much of it is jazz and instrumental. Neither genres are something that Banri would’ve ever guessed Hyodo to be into. There’s a bin of records on the bottom shelf, too. Banri spies the record player on top of Hyodo’s desk.

His desk, too, is different. There’s a laptop and a phone – both of which are new – and a _shit ton_ of music. There are other things, too : jars upon jars of candies (butterscotch, much to Banri’s disgust), a box of cookies, a few old figurines that Banri remembers Hyodo being into but not owning, and – Banri blinks and takes a few seconds to process this – a small, glass jar of the licorice candies that Banri used to fucking _love_ and Hyodo found _detestable_.

He picks up the jar and frowns at it, turning it over in his hands. It’s the only thing of sweets on Hyodo’s desk that isn’t open already. Banri wonders if it’s expired.

He pries open the packaging and sniffs the candy inside. It’s definitely fresh. He gives up on the guessing game and pops a few in his mouth. It’s not like Hyodo’s going to be missing it.

His attention back on Hyodo, though, he glances at him lying in bed soundly asleep. They used to sleep together in that same bed as kids because Banri hated insects with a passion (still does) and was always afraid of something crawling into the futon if he slept on the floor. He curls his lip at the memory.

Kumon used to wake them up, too. Not that Hyodo hadn’t always been an early riser and pissed Banri off every time he woke them up before ten o’clock. But the mornings where Kumon started jumping on the bed at the ungodly hour of six o’clock had been unbearable. Inevitably, on those mornings, Banri pulled the kid down into the covers and pinned him between himself and the kid’s older brother. That usually bought him a hour of peace before Hyodo woke up, too, and Banri couldn’t escape getting dragged downstairs for breakfast.

Banri wonders how Kumon’s doing : how much the kid’s grown. Last he had seen him, Kumon had been two whole years away from entering middle school. Now, Banri thinks about it, he’d be in his last year. He wonders if Kumon had ended up joining the baseball team like he had always wanted to.

He has half a mind to slip into Kumon’s bedroom and snoop around, but Hyodo’s warning from earlier tugs at the back of his mind. He ends up slipping out of the Hyodo family’s house and locking the gate behind him not even five minutes later.


	8. arts club pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> misumi finds a new home, kazunari experiences art block, and omi's there with a warm bowl of noodles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kazunari and omi <3 misukazuomi is a godsend of a dynamic. i love them so much for so many reasons, but my weakness for domestic dynamics is probably at the forefront.
> 
> tw // f slur by banri to juza  
> tw // descriptions of physical abuse

Sometimes, when things in the world feel horribly wrong, and the soul is weary from work and performance, nothing is more reassuring or comforting than the weight of a pencil in the hand and the feel of its graphite sliding over paper. Kazunari would attest to that.

He sits at his bedroom desk, 2B pencil in hand, and leisurely lines and shades his way into drawing blossoms of different types and species. Currently, he shades the soft petals of ebine orchids. Some music channel’s ‘shopping music compilation’ is playing through his headphones, and, if he closes his eyes, he can almost feel the fluorescent lighting of a department store hitting his oversensitive eyes.

Which, by the way, is a huge problem with brick-and-mortar stores, he thinks. If just being ADHD is enough of a sensory overload to go into large stories, he can’t imagine how others with worse sensitivities manage to shop.

But, in any case, he’s home, and all of his lamps are a gentle and soothing yellow light. Occasionally, this messes up his color mixing for projects.

He moves onto sketching out the basics of a hepatica flower. Idly, he wishes he had his colored pencils nearby so that he could add the periwinkle hue of the flowers, often referred to in the common tongue as ‘triangle flowers.’ Alas, his colored pencils are on the other side of the room in his topmost cabinet (to keep his overly-nosy sister out of them). And he’s far too lazy to get up and get them.

It’s late, anyways, too. He shouldn’t spend much time thinking about anything other than himself and his sketchbook right now. He quickly finishes up the hepatica and moves on : to tulips and plum blossoms and lilies. Inevitably, his worries stretch out once more.

Futaba’s asleep in the room over, and his parents are still downstairs cleaning up after dinner. He’ll have the night to himself soon, and then he should really break out some of his more precious art supplies. He needs to do something of value soon. It’s been two weeks now that he’s blown off art club, and he can’t continue to dodge it if he wants to finish an exemplary portfolio by the submissions deadline for Kokka Uni.

Thinking about university always gets his mood down. He turns his music up a notch and continues to shade and line, shade and line, shade and line.

A hand pokes into his shoulder blade, and Kazunari jumps a mile. Or, at least, he would have, if the desk wasn't in the way. Instead, he manages to jerk his kneecap straight into the desk’s edge. He cries out in pain and hunches over, cradling his knee.

He distantly hears someone’s voice around his music, but it takes him a little bit to snag his earbuds out of his ears.

“-so sorry, Kazu, I didn’t mean to scare you, I’m so, so sorry. Please forgive me? Please? I’m so sorry-”

“Sumi,” Kazunari breathes out in relief. “I thought you were, like, some robber about to kill me. Holy shit, how’d you get in?”

Immediately after asking, he notices that his bedroom window’s been pulled open.

“Don’t tell me you climbed up here again instead of using the front door.”

He’s prepared to start chiding Misumi as he always does, with kindness and playfulness, but his words fall right out from his throat and into his stomach when he sees Misumi’s face.

Dark purple blossoms from Misumi’s right eye and jawline. Misumi’s eyes are already red and puffy, but fresh tears now race down his cheeks like raindrops on car windows. His hands clench onto his shirt hem tightly.

Kazunari slowly takes Misumi’s hands in his own and holds them. A few of the knuckles are red with welts.

“Oh, Sumi.”

And it’s like Misumi just shatters. Suddenly, Kazunari has all of Misumi’s weight slung over him, clutching around his shoulder blades, and pushing him further and further into his drawing chair with every shuddering breath Misumi gasps for. Firmly, in the strong way Misumi has told him is comforting, Kazunari holds him back.

Kazunari inhales slowly and keeps his voice gentle. “What happened?”

Misumi presses his face harder into Kazunari’s shoulder. “Noth-th-thing.”

Kazunari rubs his hands up and down Misumi’s back. Misumi can never get his words out when he’s this upset, and, regardless of how badly Kazunari wants to know what happened, Misumi’s body also can’t handle staying this upset for very long. He presses a soft kiss to the crook of Misumi’s neck.

“Hey, you’re good here. They don’t know you’ve left?”

A choking noise croaks out of Misumi. “Th-th-they d-d-d-d-d-d-do.”

Kazunari glances at his phone. He should text his dad, at least, in case Misumi’s parents come around asking. It’s not the first time that Misumi’s left while they were still yelling at him, but it’s a rare occasion. Whenever Misumi runs, the penalty for ‘embarrassing the family,’ as Misumi has bitterly told him, is gravest.

Kazunari tightens his hold on Misumi. “Sumi, I-”

“No.” Misumi’s grip tightens : impossibly. “D-Don’t.”

Then, he shoves at Kazunari harshly. Kazunari’s back hits the desk edge at a weird angle, and he makes a small noise. Misumi catches onto it. The tears begin anew.

“I-I’m s-s-sorry.”

“It’s okay, Sumi, you’re upset. Here, just sit down. I’ll get you s-”

“No!” Kazunari stops. Misumi rarely yells at him. “I n-n-need to g-go. I’m in tr-tr-tr-tr-” His breathing gets bad, and his chest convulses as he tries to catch his breath. Kazunari bites his lip but sits still. “Tr-trouble.”

Misumi takes off for the window again, but Kazunari reaches out and pulls Misumi back into him. They stand there in the middle of the bedroom : Kazunari’s arms around Misumi’s waist, holding him back-to-chest. Misumi’s shivering horrendously.

“Shh,” Kazunari hums. He squeezes gently. “Stay.”

“The l-l-l-long-g-g-ger I’m g-gone the w-w-w-w-w-” Misumi hiccups. The ‘w’s are the hardest for him to say when upset.

“Try a different word, babe.”

“ _Angrier_ they g-g-get. They’re gonna be s-s-so _angry_.”

“You don’t have to go back tonight, Sumi. Not tomorrow, either. Look at you, Sumi. No one can force you to go back there.”

Misumi deflates. His breathing has evened out, and Kazunari counts this as a good thing.

“But I don’t want people to look at me. I don’t want… trouble.”

“Then, how about a deal? You stay with us, and, as long as your parents don’t come to get you, we don’t escalate the problem.”

Misumi stays quiet for some time.

Then, “Promise?”

Kazunari holds back the sigh. He’s tired, and he’s disappointed. Whether he’s disappointed in himself, Misumi, or Misumi’s parents, he’s not sure. He masks his small slump of body posture as a tighter hug.

“Promise.”

Slowly, Misumi turns around in his arms and embraces him. “I hate myself.”

“You shouldn’t, Sumi. None of this is your fault.”

“If I hadn’t asked to quit track,” Misumi argues, “tonight wouldn’t have been so bad. I hate them. But I hate me more. I should know by now,. I should know how to avoid them.”

“That’s what they told you, isn’t it?”

“But it’s true.”

“Sumi, listen to me.” He won’t ask Misumi to meet his eyes ; he knows Misumi hates that. So, instead, he squeezes Misumi around the midriff again. “They’re horrible people.”

“I know that.”

“They are never going to tell you the truth.”

Misumi chews his lip and stares at Kazunari’s chest.

“The people who _really_ love _you_ – not the image of you that benefits them – aren’t going to do the things your parents have done to you. You don’t owe them _anything_.”

Misumi continues to chew his lip. “But if I had just shut up and kept my head down-”

“They would have continued to treat you horribly anyway.”

Misumi’s bottom lip wavers. Kazunari steals an arm from Misumi’s waist and instead holds the back of Misumi’s head close to him : pressing Misumi’s face into his shoulder. Misumi lets out a shaky breath.

“I’ll get you the weighted blanket,” Kazunari offers. “And some hot cocoa.”

“Kazu, tomorrow’s May.”

“So no peppermint stick?”

Misumi sniffles a giggle. “I’m happy I have you.”

Kazunari feels a smile tug at his lips. “Me, too, Sumi.” He rubs Misumi’s shoulders. “Alright. I’ll go get that for you. Do you wanna wait here for me or come with?”

There’s a small pause as Misumi considers his options. There’s a small movement of Misumi’s head. A longer pause.

“Can I look through your sketchbook?”

Kazunari resituates them so he can look over at his sketchbook, currently almost covered with his doodles of flowers. It’s not as if he has anything particular good in that sketchbook. It’s just doodles.

Kazunari has no qualms regarding people looking through his sketchbooks : even his oldest and horniest ones. He attempts, very earnestly, to live by the philosophy that an artist’s purpose is to display and influence rather than simply vent. And so, he doesn’t try to hide any of his sketchbooks.

Of course, he does keep the horny ones out of reach from his sister.

“Yeah, no problem,” he accepts. He loosens his hold on Misumi and lets the other take his time detaching. “You want anything else besides the cocoa? Did you eat dinner yet?”

“No, but I don’t need-”

Kazunari tuts and wags a finger at Misumi. Misumi seems to attempt a smile, but it doesn’t come across very well. Kazunari lowers his hand.

“I’ll get you something to eat, too. You gotta eat dinner, babe. You’re already a twig as is.”

“Not a twig,” Misumi pouts. “I work out for track a lot. It’s hard to keep on weight.”

Kazunari does not even begin to mention how it’s impossible to keep weight on a one-meal-a-day diet, let alone while attempting strenuous exercise. As horrific as the lash back was for quitting track, Kazunari’s relieved that Misumi’s finally brave enough to do so. Hopefully, enough time in band will mend past bad experiences with music, and, in the meantime, Misumi can focus on regaining his physical health.

He leaves his bedroom with Misumi starting to pour over in wonder at the tiny, penciled flowers on the sketchbook’s paper.

In the kitchen, his father has a pot going on the stove.

“Uh, hey, pops,” Kazunari tries. “Whatcha got goin’?”

His father turns with a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hey, kiddo. That was the Ikaruga kid upstairs crying, wasn’t it?”

“Uh, haha, yeah. Um.”

His father sighs. “Well, if you’re down here, I guess he left already.”

“No, he’s still up there. I told him I’d get him some cocoa and dinner. Oh, and a weighted blanket. It’s been a while since we’ve needed it. Should I ask mom where she put it?”

“Nah, mom’s asleep already on the couch.” His father winks. “I think all that painting’s really exerted her calorie intake for the day.”

Kazunari snorts and lightly shoves him. “She’d kill you to hear that.”

“Put up with me so far. A friendly taunt here and there doesn’t hurt anyone.”

Kazunari shakes his head. His father’s lucky mom’s asleep for this. She never takes well to jokes about her career, though she’s so easy to fool around with on all other topics.

He peers into the pot. “Whatcha cookin’?”

“Well, originally I was itching to try a new ramen recipe. But I figured Ikaruga’s stomach wouldn’t be able to handle anything that greasy. Think he’ll like egg drop soup with some steamed dumplings?”

“Do we have dumplings made?” Kazunari starts for the fridge, but his father pinches his sleeve and keeps him at the stove.

“Use your eyes, Kaz. On the counter behind me.”

Kazunari peeks around his father. Sure enough, there’re forty little dumplings all wrapped up and ready, waiting to be steamed. He raises an eyebrow.

“This _so_ wasn’t all for Sumi. What’d you have up your sleeve?”

His father leans down and comically cups his mouth. Kazunari snorts and offers his ear like his father’s about to tell him some big secret in an empty room with Mom softly snoring on the couch.

“Mom got a promotion at work.”

“What?” Kazunari exclaims, then slaps a hand over his mouth.

They both turn to Mom, but she’s firmly out like a dead lightbulb. Kazunari might actually draw a lightbulb for a light study sometime soon.

“She really got it?” he asks quietly. His father nods. “That’s great! It’s been _years_.”

“Right? Figured I’d wake her up tomorrow morning with one of her favorite meal set-ups. Steamed dumplings, spice bomb tonkotsu ramen, maybe bring out our takoyaki maker for your sister. I was thinking of making some cookies later, too, if you and Ikaruga wanna help make some midnight snacks.”

“I’ll ask him! He’s kinda picky about his tastes for desserts, though.”

His father rolls his eyes in good humor. “Are we talking ‘triangles-only’ picky or flavor picky?”

“First instinct’s always the best, they say.”

“Right.” His father chuckles. He goes to fetch the egg carton. “But, Kaz, can you make your old man a promise?”

“Uh.” Kazunari’s good mood dips a little. “Sure? What’s up?”

“Well, look.” His father sighs. “I know you’ve been stressed out lately.”

Kazunari feels a small shudder go down his spine. He _hates_ when people see past the mask. He’s been fine. It’s always fine. He can do art. He’s an… artist. He can handle a portfolio. Otherwise he’s not an artist. He drums his hands on the counter behind him and shrugs.

“Don’t try brushing me off,” his father warns. “Believe it or not, I _did_ raise you and your sister while your mom was working. Being a stay-at-home parent has its benefits.”

“Like becoming a mom?” Kazunari teases.

His father snorts. “Cooking doesn’t make me a _mom_ , thank you.”

“And coddling the kids?”

“I think,” his father says with a worrisome glint in his eyes, “that you’re avoiding the subject at hand.”

Kazunari sighs and allows himself to wilt a little where he stands. Trust his father to not let things escape his notice.

“I guess school can be a bummer sometimes.”

“It’s the portfolio, I know.” Kazunari immediately goes to argue, but his father raises an egg-drenched chopstick to shake at him scoldingly. “Those sorts of things are important, believe me, I know! I dated your mother in high school, and she was practically a demon the last two years. I thought I’d, like, get stabbed or something.

“You know, one time, I opened her bedroom door and knocked a canvas right off her easel as she was painting on it?” Kazunari rolls his eyes. Every time, he hears this story. “She was so mad at me, I thought she’d-”

“send you to hell on the spot,” Kazunari finishes. “Yes, Dad, you tell me this story every year when art club starts up again.”

“Well, it’s a good story!” his father defends poorly. He sets the chopsticks down and moves over to the now-boiling pot of broth and water. “I’m just saying, son, I understand that all artists have a little demon in them telling them that they’re not good enough. And sometimes that little demon can possess you for a little bit.”

“And turn me into a demon of a person,” Kazunari continues. “You say this _every year_.”

“But every year, you aren’t trying to play savior to that boy upstairs.”

“It’s not playing savior, Dad, he’s, like, bleeding.”

“Well, did you offer him the first aid kit?”

“I was _going to_ before you turned this into an hour-long speech.”

His father shrugs. “Not a speech if there’s audience participation.” Kazunari groans. “I know you like the kid. In that way, I know. Friends – and boyfriends – are important.” His father laughs. “I didn’t get into the college I wanted to because I blew off studying to kiss your mom.”

“Ew, for the record.”

“ _For the record_ ,” his father mocks, “I want you to promise me if things get to be too much for you. You don’t handle stress well, kid. I know you _think_ you do, but really you just get clammy and cold with people as the stress eats you alive. For brunch.”

“It’s ‘breakfast, lunch, and dinner.’”

“I enjoy a good brunch!” Kazunari chuckles, and his father laughs merrily. He sets the now-empty bowl into the sink and sets a timer on the soup. “But, really, Kaz. Ikaruga isn’t just _your_ friend, you know? Your mom loves him, for one. You don’t need to bear all the responsibility for him. You shouldn’t, as a fact.”

Kazunari sighs and nods his head. As much as he hates to admit it, his father’s right. And, yeah, his mom does love Misumi a lot. At the same time, though, he doesn’t want Misumi to feel like he’s a burden on anyone more than Misumi already thinks he’s burdening. Even though he’s not a burden. Kazunari would do anything to get him to realize that.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, “I promise, Dad.”

His father nods satisfactorily. “Excellent!” There’s a small pause. “I realize now I have forgotten to steam the dumplings for your boyfriend.”

“It’s okay, Dad, I’m sure he won’t mind.”

The same time in the same night, Juza and Banri fight in the river. Neither know how the argument started, nor why the fight started. Both are crying. Banri screams an insult, and Juza punches him hard enough to send Banri off his feet and into the river. Banri doesn’t get up.

Later that night, once Juza’s dragged Banri out of the water and onto the grassy bank and waited for Banri to stir before leaving – before heading home, drenched with river water and blood – Banri’s words echo in Juza’s head. After Juza’s finished apologizing to his mom, who keeps quiet as she aches to see her son so hurt, he showers and heads to bed. Under the covers, Banri’s words torment him. He does not sleep.

Banri lies on the grass for the rest of the night. In the ringing of his head, he can’t even remember the words spat out at Juza. He lies there in silence and wishes he were dead.

_“When the fuck did you get this way, Settsu? What fucked you up?”_

_“What the fuck do you think? You’re what **fucked** me up. **You**. So don’t act like you get to walk away from this without a fucking fight! Make a mark to show what you did! Do it! Show the whole world what the **fag** Hyodo Juza did to me! Fuck you!”_

The cold weather of April seems to leave the day May comes. The temperatures rise, birds seem to chirp livelier, and the flora of the world just seem to boast their colors ever the more brightly. It finally starts to feel like spring is in session and like summer, perhaps, is on its way. Misumi catches a cold from the rapid temperature change – though Kazunari assumes it’s also due to stress – and stays home from school on Tuesday. But Tuesday’s an art club day, and the portfolio ever looms with its expectations.

Kazunari can’t bring himself to pay much attention in his classes, though he’s usually the picture of studiousness. He draws more flowers on his school notebooks, darkening the lines of dahlias, which are complex enough to keep Kazunari’s attention no matter how many times he draws them. There’s always another petal to shade in : always another row to add. The math teacher confiscates his notebook, and he takes to doodling in his textbook instead. He can always erase the pencil later.

And despite this, he’s still not excited to hear the bell for the end of sixth period. He lingers for a small bit and chats with the two classmates to who come to his desk for small talk. They ask him how his studies are going – specifically his grade on their last Classical Japanese pop quiz, which had been remarkably brutal even for Hayashi-sensei – and how art club goes for him. He responds kindly and accepts a small gift of pudding from one of the girls he goes to karaoke often with. She’s a sweetheart, and he’s been relieved ever since she had half-confessed : confessed, actually, that she _wasn’t_ interested in him and just wanted to be friends. Both of them had found it hilarious that their feelings were entirely mutual on that matter.

He goes to art club because he has to and because throwing paint around might help him feel better.

The supervisor in the room – also the school’s art teacher – gives him a stern lecture for missing the last week of club meetings. The usual threats of art school, portfolios, and skill-building bounce off his skin. He nods and excuses himself to the back room, which is informally _his_ room, according to anyone in art club. Half of the reason is because the lighting is so dim and poor in the back room that colored art is hard to get right. The other half of the reason is that his clubmates insist that he’s ‘spooky,’ apparently, to be around once he gets in the ‘zone.’

That part, at least, he can attest to. Both his parents agree that he has a hell of a murder face when leaning over a canvas.

So, he doesn’t expect to run into Omi in the back room, hunched over a plastic crate and rifling through what appear to be empty cans of paint. Kazunari doesn’t think he’s ever seen paint _cans_ used around the art room before, so it’s certainly not the club’s.

“Yo, Omimi!” he greets.

He trots on over to the guy’s side, and Omi pops his head up for a moment to return the greeting before focusing again on the cans and carton. Kazunari reaches him and peers down. The color arrangement, from what he can see in this lighting, is pretty rad. Lots of warm purples and vibrant reds, along with some brighter blues and a single orange.

Privately, hates to see a good color mix when his own palettes have been so stale the last month. He shoves that down and asks, “So, paint cans? Where’d you find those?

“Ah,” Omi rests back on his haunches. “They’re a hard find. I’ve been wanting to do more color studies in different lighting, but I haven’t really found anything yet that gave me the contrast I wanted.” He chuckles. “Imagine my surprise when I find out that Minako is doing a splatter paint piece. She gave me the cans when she was done.”

Kazunari raises an eyebrow. Minako’s pretty stuck-up. If she’s giving Omi her empty paint cans, she certainly means it as an insult.

“Woah,” he muses. “Knock her piece out of the water, Omimi.”

Omi raises an eyebrow. “That’s unusually barbed coming from you. Are you doing alright today?”

Kazunari shrugs. He didn’t intend to let that out, but, well, there’s a reason why he calls Omi ‘mom’ half the time. “Today, this week, it’s kind of blending together, y’know? It’s more art block than anything, but,” he shrugs again before he realizes that he isn’t coming across smooth, “we make do, don’t we?”

“Indeed,” Omi hums. He’s watching Kazunari carefully. “You want to talk about it?”

“Nah! I wanna see what you can do with your camera. Take my mind off my paints, good-lookin’.”

Omi chuckles a little and stands up, dusting off his pants. “Alright, alright.”

They fool around for a good hour, chatting about nothing as Omi snaps his photographs. Kazunari helps him with lighting by dragging around heating lamps and fluorescent spotlights : closing and opening the blind of the giant windows along the wall. Watching Omi adjust his exposure dial slightly with the lighting changes, shielding his photographs as they come out, aligning them in his film box, Kazunari feels a tight emotion begin to tangle up in his chest.

He excuses it as mere envy of another artist’s ease in their skill for the first half hour. But as the time drags on, and Omi adjusts a paint can lid for a better shadow, Kazunari is forced to admit that he’s _angry_ jealous. He waits until the next photograph is slotted neatly in the film box for drying.

“Hey, Omimi.” A hum in response as Omi sets his camera down and begins to review the older photographs, holding them out of the light. “You mind if I dip? Kinda gettin’ antsy for my own paints.”

Omi looks up and blinks. “Of course I don’t mind.”

Kazunari feels terribly suddenly. “Good pictures, by the way! You could get into art school yourself with them.”

Omi looks back down to his photos. “Ah, that would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

There’s a lull, and Kazunari takes the opportunity to swing over to his area. His ‘corner,’ as it’s laid out, is a bunch of racks and tables for his compositions. So far, he has three wips scattered about and a whole bunch of finished pieces leaning against the wall. There’s a watercolor still on the drying rack that he should really add the second layer to. There’s his piece for Misumi hiding under its curtain on the table. And there’s the current acrylic piece he’s doing for a still-life painting.

He’s still not sure what he wants as the subject for his still-life, but he’s got the background down : a nice and warm but still neutral and muted plum color. In the center of the canvas is an empty spot, and he needs to fill it soon. He takes a seat on his stool and sighs. He has more initiative to finish the watercolor than the still-life, and that in itself is defeatist.

Ideally, he wants something metallic in the center. Something that can shine and glisten to stand out from the plum drapes of the background. He’ll have the drapes pool over a table, and, in the center, maybe a centerpiece or a piece of jewelry. So far, though, he has nothing but the table.

He sighs and heads over to grab a new canvas. He might as well just start one of his design pieces for art class early. A book cover should be easy enough ; he just needs to decide on a story outline and theme, then make the cover. He doubts many students will be using traditional art for their covers in any case. He could have an advantage in critiques with this.

He sets up the art table quickly enough and grabs his sketchbook from his bag to do his required brainstorming collage. It isn’t until he hears Omi hum behind him that he realizes the other’s joined his part of the room.

“Woah!” he yelps and knocks the palette off the edge of the table.

Omi bends down to snatch it, waving Kazunari to stay put. “Sorry about that!” he laughs. “I didn’t realize you had already gotten in your zone.”

Kazunari sheepishly accepts the palette. “I know everyone calls it that, but is it really that bad?”

“Bad isn’t the word I would use, but it is admirable. Sometimes I wish I had that much concentration.”

Kazunari puffs out a laugh. “Come on, you get lost behind the camera lens, too. How’d you end up liking your pictures?”

Omi hums in reservation and takes a seat on what Kazunari realizes is stolen from the main room. He hadn’t even noticed the other bring it in.

“They’re good enough,” Omi admits. “They’re not actually for the club.”

“Yeah?”

“My father wanted me to take some photographs I’ve been waiting for the right opportunity for. He says bringing them with us to Mom’s grave would make her happy.” He smiles. “I think he was also trying to help give me a reason to do the things I keep hesitating on.”

It’s not that Kazunari forgets that Omi’s lost his mom, exactly. It’s more than Omi radiates such mom-like energy that it’s easy to forget that he doesn’t have his own motherly figure in his life.

“Oh, right. That was mid-May of our first year in middle school, wasn’t it?”

“I’m surprised you remember,” Omi admits.

“I wouldn’t forget something big like that!” Kazunari protests. “Though, yeah, my memory can get kinda bad.”

Omi nods kindly. Then, his eyes dart to the clean canvas and empty sketchbook page. “What were you about to work on?”

“Oh, the book cover assignment.”

“With acrylic on canvas?”

“Unexpected, right?” Kazunari grins wickedly. Alright, he’s starting to feel his usual flair build up in him. “Idk the story yet, but,” he drums his hands on the sketchbook, “it’ll be super rad once I’m done.”

“I look forward to seeing the final version,” Omi enthuses. “I was thinking of going down to the vending machines, if you wanted anything to drink.”

“Oh, yeah, uh, banana milk, if they have it.”

Omi makes a sour face, and Kazunari cackles. “I’m serious, dude, that stuff’s great!”

“I’ll get you that abomination of a beverage,” Omi sighs. He stands up from the stool. “By the way, Misumi told me to tell you that he’s going to band practice every day now. Depending on how long you’re staying, you probably won’t get home at the same time.”

The good mood wears off a little. Kazunari licks his lips, feeling them drying up. “Yeah, thanks for telling me. If you see him, tell him he’s welcome to come here after practice.”

“Will do.”

By Thursday, the dismal cloud of self-hatred also known as artist’s block still hasn’t left. Kazunari _has_ finished his book cover assignment. He decided on a story of a polar bear, an arctic fox, and a snowman who decide to go on a tropical vacation via roadtrip and all the shenanigans that ensue to keep the snowman frozen upon realizing that the tropical weather, in fact, melts him.

His cover art, which contained the title of _The Unforeseen Disadvantages of Being a Snowman_ , displays a gas station in a clearly-warm environment where in a realistically-painted polar bear and arctic fox hold comically disproportionate fans and attempt to cool a snowman standing in a bucket. Kazunari’s sure he has the assignment in the bag. If not for animal realism then for his color blends on the car windows.

His other assignments have yet to be touched.

Kazunari slumps over his drawing table and sighs. Theoretically, he should finish the still-life. He’s _still_ not feeling it, though.

It’s lonely in the art room, for once, too. Half of the club is off presenting at a local show that showcases the works of Veludo high schoolers. There, they’re winning awards for their categories and winning small prizes. The real prize, of course, is adding the ribbons to the ‘achievements’ section of their university applications.

Kazunari hasn’t gone since he entered high school, though. Winning first place every year in middle school has soured a lot of his classmates to him, and he’s trying to make up for it by narrowing the pool of competition. Their art teacher has already spoken with him plenty on how she disapproves of this choice.

Omi is at band practice for the day, the ever-dutiful clarinet section leader. Kazunari wonders how Misumi is doing at band practice alone with the entire percussion section. His fever finally broke, and all that’s left is a small but persistent cough. Kazunari hopes that he’s getting at least some company in the band room.

Kazunari thumbs through his sketchbook, glancing at past ideas – never acted upon – that seem outdated to him now. If he wants to do the still-life, he’ll need a fresh idea. He throws his head back and groans.

He’s not sure when he heads off for the band wing of the school building. He’s aware of the art instructor asking him to pick up set pieces from Matsukawa-sensei for refurbishing, but he waves the chore off with a dazzling smile and an excuse. Funnily enough, he ends up passing by the frazzled theatre director on his way to the band wing. The guy’s got an absurdly high stack of manila folders in his arms, and he talks furiously with Iwai-sensei (or, rather, _to_ Iwai-sensei). Kazunari ducks around them, and neither seem to notice him.

It takes him a bit to find the clarinets’ practice room. He hears clamoring and trumpets – at the same time, amusingly – from one of the biology lab rooms, and he’s pretty sure that the two huddled behind the bookshelf in the hallway nook are the resident flutists. But he has trouble finding the clarinetists.

He peeks into the trombone room.

“Yo, Frooch, have you seen Omimi?”

Guy looks up from his trombone sheet music in confusion at the same time Furuichi manages to bang his trombone bell against the stand. A horrific ringing noise follows until Furuichi grips the instrument with a crushing hold.

“Miyoshi,” Furuichi snaps. “Go to percussion if you’re not busy at arts club.”

“Nah, fam, I _am_ busy with arts club. I need Omimi for a second opinion on a little something-something.” He catches Guy’s eye and winks. “Hey, cutie.”

Guy turns to Furuichi listlessly. “I do not think my Japanese is advanced to understand what he is saying. Could you repeat it for me in easier terms?”

Furuichi sighs. “He’s an idiot. There is no translating.”

“Rude!” Kazunari protests. “Question stands, Frooch.”

“Get out of the practice room, Miyoshi.”

Miyoshi sighs and closes the door. How Furuichi always manages to disappoint him, he’ll never understand. At least Tasuku’s a hoot to bother.

He eventually finds the clarinets practicing in a third-year classroom across the walkway from the band wing of the building, which is an unusual place for band club members to go to. The newcomer – Mikage, Kazunari thinks he remembers Tasuku saying – is hunched over his sheet music with Omi. Sakuya sits a chair away and is going through scales with all the determination of a small puppy trying to jump onto the bed.

Mikage glances up first, and Omi soon follows his gaze to the doorway. Kazunari flashes them a peace sign.

“Sup!”

Mikage’s eyes narrow. Omi offers a wave. Sakuya breaks away from his reed and chirps a greeting.

“Is there something you needed, Kazunari?”

Kazunari swings into the room. “Yeah, kinda.” He doesn’t want to seem like he’s disregarding the rest of the clarinets, though, so he comes over to Mikage’s side and peeks at the music book. “How’s sectionals goin’ for ya?”

“Fine,” Mikage says. His voice is quiet enough that Kazunari has to take a moment to process the small sound as a word.

“Mikage-senpai has a lot of patience and dedication,” Omi praises. “He’s going through the book at a fairly steady pace. And Sakuya-kun, too, is giving it his all.”

Kazunari glances over their heads at the pink-haired kid still working on his scales. While the scales are in the very last pages of the book, it’s still transparently clear that content-wise he’s further towards the beginning of his book than Mikage is, despite having a three week advantage on Mikage. Kazunari feels bad for the kid.

“How’re ya liking the clarinet?” he asks Mikage. Then, before Mikage can answer, a bolt of realization hits Kazunari. He doesn’t have a nickname for the third-year. “Oh! And what’s your full name? I have like little nicknames for everyone. You gotta be part of the nickname gang!”

Mikage glances at Omi reticently. “Not sure I want a nickname.”

“Aw, pretty please? It would be awkward if you were the only one without a nickname!”

The longer Mikage stares at him, the more Kazunari begins to feel sweat begin to bead at his neck. This is kind of intimidating.

“Mikage Hisoka,” Mikage finally says.

“Great! Can I call ya Hisohiso?”

“No.”

“How’re ya likin’ the clarinet, Hisohiso?”

Mikage exhales slowly and closes his eyes to compose himself. Kazunari giggles. Never underestimate the fun of a little light-hearted jesting.

“The reed and mouthpiece still feel weird in the mouth,” he admits. “But it feels good to make visible progress on something.”

Kazunari can relate to the feeling. If only he was going through his canvases and music book enough to get that rush.

Sakuya’s playing stops, and the kid catches his breath.

“Oh, yeah, Omimi. I know it’s kinda rude to do this, but I’d super duper appreciate it if you had time for a little bit of photography around town right now. Art club is seriously the pits right now.”

“The pits?” Mikage echoes.

Omi frowns. “I’d like to, Kazunari, but I also have responsibilities as section leader.” He seems to feel guilty when Kazunari wilts, though. “How about after sectionals?”

“Ah,” Kazunari can’t say he’s in the mood to wait, but to not wait would be incredibly rude. “Yeah, that’s fine!” He grins.

Mikage, who’s been watching him carefully the entire time, clears his throat softly. He turns to Omi. “You can go with him. I’ll keep reviewing what we’ve gone over so far. I’ll take section leader duty for the rest of today.”

“Ah, but-”

“It’s fine, Fushimi-san!” Sakuya chirps. He catches Kazunari’s eyes and smiles impossibly wide. Maybe, Kazunari thinks, this is the good karma from helping the kid study for Classical coming around. “Mikage-san and I can handle the last forty-five minutes! We’ll tell the Director what happened!”

Omi hesitates. Then, he sighs with a smile. “Alright, alright. Thanks, you two.”

“No problem!”

Omi grabs his case from the floor and closes the latch. He hands his book over to Kazunari, and Kazunari accepts it. “Kazunari, walk me to the instrument room?”

They say their good-byes cheerfully, but the hallway walk is notably quieter. Kazunari flips through Omi’s intermediate practice book and lingers on what look to be tricky measures of sixteenth notes. It’s a rhythm-building page, and there are notes in the margins on counting beats. Clearly, whatever Omi works on becomes a labor of love.

They pass the trombone classroom, and Kazunari winks again at Guy as they pass. The exchange student blinks in confusion cutely, and Kazunari chuckles to himself.

Omi chuckles, too. “For someone so full of energy, it’s hard to understand how you hit artist’s block,” he says. Kazunari turns to Omi. Somehow, he hadn’t been expecting something like that from him. “It’s easy to understand how I get artist’s block, I suppose. After all, I _am_ so busy, and it’s easy for things to fall through the cracks when you’re tired. But you’ve always struck me as the 900% kind of person.”

“Ah,” Kazunari remarks, “there’s the answer, though. 900% or nothing for me. I’m just in a ‘nothing’ kind of drag right now.”

“You’ll get out of it,” Omi encourages.

Kazunari bites his lip and turns back to face forwards as he walks.

“Yeah, I hope.”

They reach the instrument storage room, and Omi pulls the door open for them. They filter inside, and the smell of valve oil and instrument metal hits Kazunari. He doesn’t spend enough time in here to have gotten used to it yet. He feels kind of bad about that.

“I wouldn’t worry,” Omi continues.

He sets his case down and opens it to start dissembling his instrument. Kazunari watches curiously. The clarinet looks so much more complicated than a lot of the other instruments. Kazunari’s bothered Furuichi enough to know only the mouthpiece gets taken out, and Tasuku’s only ever removed the mouthpiece and its reed. But the clarinet has like a million parts.

Kazunari hums. Okay, it’s not a million. But four whole body pieces plus the reed and… whatever the reed holder’s called… is a lot. Yet, Omi navigates his instrument with ease and drops them into their felt holders gently.

“Did you pick clarinet because you like it or because you felt that it would be rude not to, considering you have experience and the band didn’t have any players for it yet?”

Omi hesitates midway through separating the two main body joints. Then, he pulls them apart and sets them in the case. “I suppose a bit of both.” He closes the case and clicks the latches. “I do enjoy playing the clarinet,” he says and places the clarinet on its proper rack, “but I also did feel like it would be rude if I didn’t play it, all things considered.”

“Was there another instrument you would’ve chosen?”

Omi hums and gestures for Kazunari to follow him back out into the hall. They walk down the hallway together. “I’m not even sure. Maybe I would have joined Takato-senpai in the saxophones. I still feel kind of bad that he’s alone in the section even after all of the new recruits.”

“Well, aren’t high school bands usually fifty or so members? It can’t be helped considering we’re such a small band.”

“Ah, that’s true. Usually, it’s even more than fifty.”

Kazunari whistles. “I kinda get why the Director’s so high-strung about the whole program, y’know? She’s not getting thrown many bones.”

“She does her best. For what it’s worth, she has a fantastic skill at instructing and leading others. She’s just a little disorganized right now because of,” Omi pauses, “well, everything. I’m sure by the start of fall, she’ll have everything the way she’d like it.”

“Here’s to hoping.”

They’ve reached the entrance and part on their ways to their respective shoe lockers, though they’re not far from each other. Kazunari somewhat regrets wearing sandals on the way to school. They’re not the best walking shoes, and he _does_ want to drag Omi around town looking for inspiration. Luckily, Omi seems to have an old pair of sneakers that should be comfortable for him.

“So,” Omi starts once they’re outside the school gates and standing in the orange light of sunset. “Where did you want to take me?”

“Anywhere, fam. I’m fresh out of inspiration. You got any usual places that you like photographing?”

Omi hums and sets off westward on the street. Kazunari follows, interest piqued.

“I’ve something better than a good place for photographs,” Omi says with what can only be intentional vagueness. Kazunari pouts, and Omi chuckles. “Don’t get disappointed yet! You haven’t even seen it.”

Kazunari supposes that’s true and doesn’t question where Omi’s taking him. Though, it _definitely_ seems to be the long way there. They pass up and down staircases along the main hill of town and walk by plenty of fenced vistas. In the vivid sunset, the orange lighting pouring over the horizon almost hurts. Finally, Omi turns down a side street off the main drag of this part of town.

Kazunari smells it before he even registers the sign.

“A noodle shop?”

“Now, now,” Omi chides and holds the curtain back for him. “We’ve worked up an appetite walking around, haven’t we?”

Kazunari sighs, but he can’t say he’s disappointed with how things have turned out. Omi _is_ the resident mom. It can’t be helped that Omi’s more interested in getting a semi-decent workout and warm meal into him than fulfilling an inspiration meter and jump-starting another hyperfixation session.

They take a seat at one of the tables in the back by the garden window. Omi orders a bowl with miso broth and a copious amount of vegetables for Kazunari, against Kazunari’s whining for a spicy tonkotsu, and a cream broth for himself. They sip through a pot of green tea that Omi also orders. Kazunari watches the ceiling fans turn, and Omi clicks through his camera peacefully.

It’s a nice atmosphere, admittedly. If Omi’s recommended the place, then there’s no doubt that the food will be better than just good.

Omi pushes his camera across the table, and Kazunari blinks. It takes him a moment to recollect his thoughts from where they’ve scattered about the room.

“Here,” Omi encourages.

Kazunari picks up the camera and looks at it skeptically. He glances up at Omi and arches an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

“Take a picture.”

Kazunari laughs. “You know I don’t know anything about cameras. I don’t even know how to hit the shutter.”

“Don’t worry about it. Pick something and hit that little button,” he points to where Kazunari’s thumb is lingering. “I’ve already adjusted the exposure enough for you. It’s automatic, too. Don’t worry about focusing.”

Kazunari waits for Omi to tell him he’s joking, but Omi simply continues to grin at him. He gives up and sighs through a grin. Trust Omi to throw a curveball.

He looks around the place for what he’d like to photograph. A lot of the subjects are calm and inviting enough, but there’s nothing that really sparks anything in him. Finally, he turns back to Omi.

“Alright,” he says, and a devilish thought pops into his mind. “Strike a pose.”

“Wh-”

And the shutter snaps. Kazunari peeks down at the digital copy and bursts out laughing. It’s a super ugly picture both a little fuzzy and at a weird up-angle, and it fills him with an insane amount of glee.

Omi sighs, and a healthy blush has taken over his face. “Alright, give that back,” he grumbles. “I should’ve known better.”

“Nooo,” Kazunari laughs and pulls the camera out of Omi’s reach. “You’re so cute in it, Omimi. Don’t just delete it!”

“I won’t delete it,” Omi lies.”

Kazunari sticks out his tongue. And then promptly shoves it back in his mouth when he realizes that the waiter’s coming over with their bowls. He sits very politely and thanks the waiter before resuming his attention on Omi. Omi’s half-covering his face in embarrassment.

“Alright,” Kazunari sighs dramatically. “I will relinquish my highest art.”

He hands the camera over. A loud laugh escapes Omi as he peeks at the image, and he claps a hand over his mouth as his shoulders continue to shake.

“How did you get me to look so _ugly_?”

It’s after dinner that Omi lets their conversation run a little more serious. Kazunari opens his heart just a fraction : just enough to describe his current position in between artist’s block and stress over his required pieces. And Omi manages to read write through the fine print.

“And there’s no connection to Misumi’s mood since Monday?”

Kazunari freezes, cup halfway to his lips. He takes a small sip. “Sumi’s mood?”

“He seems upset of late.”

“Ah,” Kazunari sighs. That _is_ his fault. “I don’t want to get too heavy on you, Omimi.”

“I’m all ears,” Omi encourages.

“Ah, no. You’re busy with your own family.”

“That’s true,” Omi agrees. “And things keep getting more complicated there. But I’m still all ears for you and Misumi. We’re friends, right? Even if I can’t fix anything, I’m here to listen.”

A warm bubble of gratitude and admiration pops and floods Kazunari’s chest.

“Thanks,” he whispers.

“So, what’s going on?”

Kazunari considers how to phrase this. He’s sure that Misumi won’t mind Omi knowing ; the two get along so well. But it’s still a sensitive topic, and Misumi has his own paranoia of being treated differently when people learn the truth.

“Sumi… well. His parents aren’t kind.”

Omi nods. “I assumed so. He comes to school with bruises every now and then. It was more in middle school, but.”

“Yeah. So, there was a bad fight Saturday night in his place. I don’t really know all the details. Apparently, it was over track.” Omi nods : mouth set in a firm line. “Sumi comes through my window at like nine p.m. crying and all bruised up. Apparently, he ran away mid-fight.”

Omi’s gaze lowers to the table.

“So, he’s staying at my place. My parents are happy to have him, and the dinner table’s all the merrier, and yada yada. But, like, I know Sumi just feels embarrassed and at fault for all of this. Even though it’s _not_. But, even then, between trying to convince him of that and expectations and artist’s block and the fact that I’m not in band nearly as much as I should be…” Kazunari trails off and sighs. He rolls his cup between his hands. “I’m feeling really… out of energy. It’s like I can’t do anything but sit and feel bad? And it’s really annoying.”

Omi nods slowly. His hands unfurl from their clasp together on the table. “Do you want advice or emotional support, right now?”

“Either, man. I feel like, I don’t know. You know when you take a knifeful of butter to butter your toast and then realize that you didn’t take enough to cover what you wanted? Even though you thought you had enough? So you gotta get a second knifeful? That’s me right now, but I don’t get that second knifeful.”

“Surprisingly,” Omi says, “I follow one of your analogies.”

Kazunari manages a weak grin. Omi matches it warmly.

“I think,” Omi says calmly, “that if you need a night – even a week – to yourself, Misumi’s welcome at my place. I think you need to take a week off. Not like the last month of jumping around things and doing what you can when you can. A full rest. And when you’re itching to come back not out of responsibility but out of eagerness to create, that’s when you should come back.”

“I can’t afford to do that right now. I have the portfolio and band and-”

“All of that will wait until you’re back. It might not feel like it, but I promise you that you have at least a week of time. And which is better : a week of time or months more of this unfulfilled state of the self?”

Kazunari stares at the wooden table. He knows the answer even if he doesn’t like it. A small grin tugs at the corners of his lips. “Unfulfilled state of the self? You oughta join the literature club or something.”

Omi laughs : a nice richness in his dark eyes warm under the yellow lighting of the restaurant. Combined with his red vest over his school uniform, draped over the back of his chair, Kazunari realizes that he likes Omi’s color palette a lot. Then, he realizes, he wants to paint Omi at the counter, eating ramen.

He grabs his sketchbook from his bag and flips to an empty page. Quickly, he scribbles the idea down and fumbles through his colored pencils set to provide a rough color swatch to count as ‘brainstorming.’ Omi watches him calmly and pours the last of the green tea into his cup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> triangle flowers (or hepatica) actually exist!! they're called misumisou, but their petals aren't as triangular as their name suggests :((( i love adhd kazu and austistic misumi sm (totally not bc i can project ww). i think they're really good for each other but also a super good reminder abt the dangers of co-dependence 


	9. saxophone, dainty flutes pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a talk between tsumugi and tasuku, azuma returns after six chapters' disappearance, guy/sakyo/taichi lower brass solidarity, juza joins the band, and itatsumu cafe date

Tasuku pulls his mouth off his mouthpiece and rolls his jaw a bit to loosen his tense muscles. A tense jaw is apparently something the Director’s noticed in his playing, and her encouragement to try relaxing his tension and grip while playing has been stuck in his head since. Apparently, jaw injuries from hypertension, straining, and forced pressure in the wrong direction can lead to permanent jaw injuries. If he wants to go professional, he’ll need to perform more fluidly both for his career’s and his jaw’s sake.

He glances over to Tsumugi and regrets it when he sees Tsumugi gently wetting his lips : dried out from blowing over his flute.

Tasuku snatches his gaze back to his sheet music and, resting his saxophone in his lap, shuffles some of the pages. He leaves the second and third pages open on his stand. They’ll need to work on the duet more if they want to get the timing perfect.

Not that they’re practicing for anything in particular. It’s more an old habit that the two of them have : always practicing difficult pieces together in the hopes of being each other’s steadfast encouragement to continuously improve and put forth the effort. Every time Tasuku plays through a tricky few lines, Tsumugi has the drive to go over his trills until they’re ear-perfect. Every time Tsumugi pulls off a trill with a particular elegant flare, Tasuku returns to practicing his own part rigorously.

It’s likely how they’ve both come so far.

“You sounded good,” Tsumugi praises. “Especially in measures 104 and 158.”

Those were his harder octave jumps. Tasuku feels his ears burn.

“We need to work on measures sixty through ninety-two more,” he deflects. He picks up his pencil and circles the cue he missed. “Our timing’s still a bit off.”

There’s silence, and, then, “Right. I noticed that, too.” Tsumugi picks up his pencil. “I think I messed up, let’s see, in measure 74 and then again in 90.”

Tasuku waits for Tsumugi to finish. Finally, the pencil’s lowered. Tasuku raises his instrument up a little and wets the reed.

“From 72?”

“Um, Tasuku? Wait a moment.”

There’s a beat of confusion, and Tasuku turns to Tsumugi in concern. He can’t recall missing any other mistakes in their playing. But then he sees that Tsumugi’s flute is resting in Tsumugi’s lap : silver metal shining against the white of their school uniform. He slowly lowers his own instrument.

Knowing Tsumugi for so long – seeing all that Tsumugi exhibits in his certain moods and all that he’s both good and bad at, sharing a certain type of really _knowing_ one another – Tasuku can read, with an anxious, thrumming heartbeat, that Tsumugi is about to tell him something difficult to hear. Tasuku already knows what it’ll be, too. And while knowing isn’t as bad as not knowing, there’s a certain type of disappointment that comes with listening to your closest friend sidestep the inevitable in a conversation.

Because, sure enough, Tsumugi begins their talk with a meek, “May’s getting warmer, isn’t it?”

Tsumugi won’t meet his eyes. His hands shift in his lap. It’s not uncommon that Tsumugi behaves so shyly, though. Tasuku could almost convince himself that this is all a prelude to Tsumugi asking him to the florist’s after school.

“Yeah, I guess.”

Tsumugi wrings his hands nervously at his answer. “We may only have a few more weeks before the summer weather comes,” he says. “I should really consider going to get a few more orchid stalks from the florist’s, shouldn’t I?”

“Do you want company?”

Tsumugi peeks up carefully, then offers a small smile. “Yes, that would be nice.”

They sit in silence. Tasuku almost thinks that, maybe, this is really all there was to the conversation. He’s ready to raise his reed back to his lips when he sees Tsumugi lift a hand to rub his neck nervously.

“We usually spend our summers together, don’t we?”

Tasuku plays with the keys of his saxophone. “Yeah. We go to your grandparents’. Country gardening. Popsicles. Fresh produce.”

Tsumugi nods slowly. “I always have a lot of fun there when you come with.”

“Tsumu,” Tasuku tries. Tsumugi’s eyes go a little wide at the rarely-spoken nickname. “What’re you trying to say?”

“Ah,” Tsumugi laughs nervously. Tasuku realizes that his tone might have been too harsh : again. “Sorry, I know you prefer when I’m straight-forward with these things.”

“That’s not-”

“It’s fine! It’s something I should improve on.” He exhales shakily. “Would… it be alright if we didn’t go to my grandparents’ for summer break?”

“And instead did what?”

“I was hoping to spend more time getting to know Itaru-kun.”

And, there it is. Tasuku continues to play with his keys. It’s alright. He can do this. He can support Tsumugi in this. He’s a good friend. He’s Tsumugi’s _best_ friend. Their friendship isn’t built off the expectation of a relationship. Besides, they’re not dating.

He nods in what he hopes is a convincingly casual demeanor.

“That’s fine,” he manages, but he _can’t_ manage to meet Tsumugi’s eyes. “We can, uh, we can still hang out around that. Florist’s shop and, uh, all.”

Tsumugi’s watching him carefully, Tasuku knows, and it worries him. It worries him that Tsumugi’s going to read right through him and take things the wrong way.

“You’re really okay with that?”

“Of course. We’re… friends, right? We have other friends. We can have more friends.”

Tasuku lifts his chin at the wrong time. Tsumugi’s face is full of pity, and Tasuku doesn’t want to see it.

“You know it’s more than that, Taa-chan.”

He does, and he wishes he didn’t.

“Well, it… shouldn’t matter. We’re not like Mikage and Arisugawa. We’re not… a couple.” The pity clings to Tsumugi’s face, mixed with another odd emotion, and it saddens his eyes. “But you like Chigasaki, right?” Tasuku tries to save. “There’s no problem, right?”

“When you say it like that, maybe there shouldn’t be,” Tsumugi admits quietly. “But you’re alright with it?”

“Of course. Yeah. I spend all of my time with the sax anyways.” He rubs a key nervously as Tsumugi continues to nod quietly to himself. “Did you want to finish practice?”

There’s a long pause. Then, after another moment, Tsumugi’s hands find his flute. His bottom lip wobbles once, and then it’s gone.

“From 72, right?”

Tasuku is decidedly _not_ alright with the idea of Tsumugi and Chigasaki dating.

If anything, he feels that this is all somehow _his_ fault. He probably should have been kinder to Tsumugi’s feelings somehow : encouraged the small gift-giving and humored the nicknames more. But, at the same time, he’s seen where that’s gotten Mikage and Arisugawa.

It drives him up the wall for the first few days. Even as he tries to focus on his saxophone, it’s as if he’s suddenly hyperaware of every time he notices Tsumugi and Chigasaki together. On Wednesday, they huddle together in the crook of the hallway, going over a breathing exercise in Chigasaki’s beginner’s booklet. On Thursday, they play a practice duet for the Director and spend the rest of club time playing in one of the home education lab rooms.

On Friday, Tasuku has no idea where the two of them are because he’s foregoing band club for the day. Instead, he’s waiting outside of Yukishiro’s classroom almost the second the bell signaling the end of sixth period sounds.

Yukishiro, for his part, doesn’t flaunt the fact that Tasuku’s waiting for him after years of ignoring all of the other’s flirtations and affections. Yukishiro only offers him a small and sympathetic smile. He takes Tasuku by the arm and leads them downstairs to the lockers along with all of the other students eager to leave school grounds for the weekend.

Outside, passing out the school gate, Yukishiro glances at him from the corner of his eyes.

“I take it you’ve come to me in heartbreak.”

Tasuku tries to scoff. “We weren’t dating.”

“One does not need a relationship in order to experience heartbreak.” Tasuku mutely continues to walk by his side. “Did you want to talk about it at my place?”

Tasuku’s never been to Yukishiro’s house, now that he realizes. He’s heard enough about Yukishiro’s aunt and uncle, and Tasuku has since kept his distance. Even now, he’s not sure going over to Yukishiro’s place would be right. He doesn’t want to put Yukishiro in a bad position if his relatives get angry and start a fight over his presence.

“Um,” is all he can think to say.

“Auntie gets back after dinner, and my uncle’s away on business for now. We have a few hours to ourselves.”

Tasuku sighs at the suggestive tone. Trust Yukishiro to make something out of nothing. “Alright.”

They walk in relative silence, umbrellas swinging in the space between them.

It’s not that Tasuku has never noticed the subtle way that Yukishiro carries himself in whatever he’s doing. Frequently, in fact, he can’t help but mentally remark on the slight way Yukishiro leans into him when sitting in the courtyard or the almost-purposeful way he brushes his hair out of his face. The soft steps of Yukishiro’s flats – women’s style, for a reason Tasuku can’t imagine – on the pavement sounds particularly noticeable today of all days, though, and Tasuku’s mind goes down an uncharacteristic rabbit hole.

He wonders why Yukishiro bothers to maintain such a façade of self-control and confidence around their classmates and to continue it even when only Tasuku is around. Tasuku can only assume that the act is a hard one to pull off. After all, he himself can’t seem to act naturally at ease whenever Tsumugi’s involved, let alone when certain individuals – named Arisugawa, Miyoshi, and Yukishiro – come around with their pestering.

So, if it is so difficult, then there must be a reward to the performance worthwhile. Tasuku can’t seem to figure out what that reward is for Yukishiro.

Yukishiro’s relatives’ house is an older building : renovated from being a gated property with traditional architecture to a more modern mix of the traditional style with post-modern, and so – unlike many of its neighbors with their sturdier walls and foundations – Yukishiro’s relatives’ house stands out.

Yukishiro leads Tasuku through the small alley-side entryway and to the wooden porch, where Yukishiro removes his shoes and picks them up to carry to the doorway. Tasuku follows suit with his own shoes and socks. They leave them in a small dip of what appears to be a side entrance into the house : on a little wooden shoe rack.

And, inside the house itself, Tasuku gazes around in unexpected awe. The wood of the flooring is clearly an expensive endeavor with how well it’s polished and how fine the grain of it is. The walls, too, are expensive and vary between paper and plaster. A peek to the right as they walk down the hall shows an east-facing sunroom with tatami matting and even a sun alcove. The window is big enough for three musicians to practice on a clear day.

“I didn’t realize your relatives’ house is this nice,” Tasuku admits.

They come into an impressively-sized kitchen, and Tasuku takes a moment to stare at the small built-in burners on the dining table for hot pots and assorted whatnot. The lighting in the room would have Tsumugi fawning. Then, Tasuku checks himself. Not every thought has to lead back to Tsumugi.

“Yes, it’s quite nice,” Yukishiro agrees. “You can leave your bag in my room, if you’d like. It’s upstairs and the last room on the hall. Would you like tea? Or coffee, if that’s your preference.”

Tasuku will fully admit that he’s unwilling to wander around such a place unattended. He stands by the counter and continues to look around.

“I can wait. And coffee, please.”

“Sugar or milk?”

“None.”

Yukishiro hums and pulls out a bag of coffee grounds from behind the coffeemaker on the counter. Tasuku watches and barely hides a scoff at the idea that Yukishiro’s relatives buy whole artisan coffee beans to grind up before brewing. He thought everyone could just appreciate the bulk sale coffee grounds at the grocer’s.

It’s a few minutes into the coffee maker’s cycle that it strikes Tasuku how quiet Yukishiro has been since leaving school.

“You know,” he says, and Yukishiro hums to show that he’s listening. “I can understand why you don’t like to spend much time here.”

Yukishiro looks over his shoulder. “Really?”

“It’s pretty. I’m genuinely impressed that so much money can fit into so few square meters. But it is cold.”

Yukishiro’s expression softens. “It is, isn’t it?”

“Do you spend a lot of time in any of these rooms?”

“Not much, no.”

Tasuku really can understand. Yukishiro turns back to arranging a small plate of biscuit cookies, pocky, and licorice bars. The coffee maker softly beeps to announce the end of its cycle, and the spout gurgles to drain the filter of its last drops. Tasuku breathes in deep, and, sure enough, the coffee smells as rich as the packaging had indicated.

The mugs that Yukishiro pulls from the cabinets are visibly not his, with their plain white ceramic gloss. But the small creamer that he pulls from the fridge after pouring the coffee _is_ visibly his : marzipan flavoring and all. It’s an admittedly cute little bottle with a small unicorn label on the front.

Tasuku takes the offered mug and follows Yukishiro up a narrow flight of stairs to the second floor. The doors on this level are closed unlike the first level : no longer a show of wealth but instead a clear indication of borders and privacy demands. Yukishiro’s bedroom, Tasuku learns, is all the way at the end of the hallway and through a small, wooden sliding door that takes them into what is more a second-floor sunroom than a proper bedroom.

The room itself is a stark contrast from the rest of the house.

The tatami and the architecture of the room and its sunlight is the same as the rest of the house’s architecture, sure, but it’s the presentation and the decoration that eases some of the tension on Tasuku’s shoulders. Clothes hang on their hangers from the wood molding above the closet doors. A few wind chimes hang from the molding above the windows : multi-colored and cheerful with small metal birds and stained glass bobbles dangling below and about the metal chimes themselves.

A table is pushed alongside the far wall, and the corner between it and the closets is where Yukishiro sets down his bag before setting his coffee down on a coaster : plate on the table. Tasuku follows suit. A glance into the one open closet door shows a record player and box of records, along with some photographs taped to the back closet wall.

“Somehow,” Tasuku says, and he feels a smirk creep onto his lips, “I thought your room would be cleaner.”

“Oh, hush,” Yukishiro chides good-naturedly. “With this much space, a man must make do.”

“It _is_ small,” Tasuku agrees. His back bumps into the wall as he takes his seat on the floor pillow. “You can fit a futon in here?”

“Surprisingly. It does require the table to be rearranged onto its side every evening, though. Necessary sacrifices, I suppose.”

Tasuku takes a sip of his coffee.

“Are you partial to jazz?”

Tasuku snorts into the coffee. “You’re asking a sax player?”

“Fair enough. You wouldn’t mind a record, then?”

“Go for it.”

Yukishiro moves to the closet and thumbs through his albums. Tasuku steals a licorice bar and dips it into his coffee.

“So, Tsumugi-kun.”

And Tasuku has to hide a sigh. He had almost hoped the matter to be forgotten. While he had come to Yukishiro expecting some sort of consolation – he’s still not sure what he had been wanting – another part of him is too relaxed to see some of the Yukishiro behind the layers of composition and ease : colorful room, messy closet, and all.

But he can’t simply ignore Tsumugi and Chigasaki either, so he exhales slow and quiet before nodding.

“Asked me earlier if I’d be okay with him and Chigasaki dating.”

“Who?”

“Oh, uh, Chigasaki’s the new flutist. He and Tsumugi spend a lot of time practicing flute, so I guess they hit it off then.”

Although, thinking back on it, the awkwardness had really began almost the day Chigasaki had entered the band club in the first place. At least, Tasuku distinctly remembers how eager Tsumugi had been to introduce Chigasaki to the basics of flute in the privacy of the hallway rather than in the band room with Tasuku or Fushimi listening in.

“And how do you feel about it?”

Yukishiro starts the record, and small speakers on the floor just beside the closet begin to play out the first track. He joins Tasuku at the table and picks up his own mug with a delicate grip.

Tasuku doesn’t know how he can describe how he feels about it.

“I guess… I want to be happy for him. I told him I was when he told me. I told him he and I weren’t dating so it wasn’t a problem.”

“And how’d he react to that?”

Yukishiro’s gaze over the rim of his mug as he sips is careful. Tasuku thinks back to that look of pity and something else in Tsumugi’s face and eyes.

“I’m not sure. I think he pitied me.”

Yukishiro raises an eyebrow. “And nothing else?”

“I don’t think he was happy with my response.” Yukishiro hums for him to continue, but Tasuku doesn’t know what other information he can provide. It had been a short exchange, after all, and he had been processing a lot of very painful emotions at the time. “I… don’t think he liked it when I said that he and I weren’t like Mikage and Arisugawa.”

“Like Hisoka-kun and Homare-kun in what way?”

“Like a couple.”

Yukishiro winces. “Oh, Tasuku. You can’t just say that to someone bearing their heart for you.”

“Wait. What?”

“Our sweet Tsumugi-kun was trying to gauge whether or not you cared enough for him to ask him to stay with you.”

Tasuku blinks. “No.” Yukishiro nods. “No,” he repeats.

That couldn’t be right. Tsumugi had already had a crush on Chigasaki : had already been flirting with him and blushing when Chigasaki reciprocated. This wasn’t that.

“But, well, you’ve committed to it,” Yukishiro reminds him. “You said you supported him, right?”

“I said it was fine : normal.”

“You’re going to have to stick to that, you know. You’ll have to give them relationship advice about the other and encourage them to continue working on their relationship and get along with the both of them and hang out with them even when they’re together. It’s a commitment to be a supportive friend, you know.”

“I know!” Tasuku bites his lip at the raised voice. “I mean, I know. I just… didn’t realize that Tsumugi was looking for all of that when he was talking with me.”

“Well, Tsumugi-kun is a very prudent but also very sensitive person. He reacts emotionally to a lot of minor things, but he is incredibly talented at recognizing which minor things are worth the reaction.” Yukishiro selects a pocky stick from the plate. “Sometimes, he has more cards up his sleeve than even he realizes.”

Tasuku sighs and takes another sip of his coffee.

“So, what are you planning to do going forwards?” Yukishiro asks.

“Focus on sax, I guess. I still can’t believe we’ve had so many new recruits and not a single one of them has chosen the saxophone.”

“Ah, a lonely soul.”

“Don’t talk as if you’re not lonely, too.”

Yukishiro hums dramatically. “I _am_ quite lonely, though I thought I did a better job of hiding it than I apparently do, if you noticed.”

“To be honest, it didn’t hit me until the walk here.”

“Well, then let us be together in our loneliness. We have coffee, cookies, and a quiet house to ourselves. What more could we want?”

A bolt of inspiration hits Tasuku. He _does_ know what he wants, for once.

“Join the saxophone section.”

Yukishiro chokes on his coffee. He sputters and sets the mug down, turning his face to hide as he coughs into elbow and catches his breath. He turns back with a slightly flushed face.

“I’m sorry?”

“Join the band club.” Yukishiro stares disbelievingly. “Join me in the sax section. It won’t be high pressure. Just us practicing whenever we want : at school or here. You can borrow my sax for out-of-school lessons.”

“Wait, wait,” Yukishiro reaches out a hand. “That’s not exactly what I meant by being alone together.”

“It’s what I mean,” Tasuku argues back. “It would get you out of the house, too. You left the tea ceremony club, didn’t you? If you join band, you can stay at school even longer and more frequently than you used to.”

Yukishiro sighs and hides the worried frown of his mouth behind a pale hand. “I’m not sure. It seems like a lot of dedication, and I _do_ enjoy at least being in this house without my aunt or uncle around.”

“Think about it, at least.”

Yukishiro sighs again. His eyes meet Tasuku : tired, worried, lonely. Despite all his skincare products, he’ll have creases at the corners of his eyes from all his fretting soon enough. And Tasuku almost cannot believe that he would have never noticed this had it not been for the gravity between Tsumugi and Chigasaki.

“Alright,” Yukishiro relents. “I’ll _think_ about it. I can’t promise anything else.”

“That’s all I need.”

“Alright. But forgive me for asking for something in return.”

“If you join sax? I hesitate to say it, but anything.”

An eyebrow pricks up. “Oh, really?”

He slides around the table to Tasuku’s side, and Tasuku can’t ignore how his heart rate immediately picks up. A new heat blooms, almost immediately, in his hands and face : unbearable hot in comparison to how cold this house is.

“Yukishiro?”

Yukishiro hums. “Azuma might sound better, you know.”

And, then, Azuma’s leaning in and pressing with petal-soft lips against Tasuku’s own, gently moving them into a small kiss, and it simply clicks in Tasuku’s head. He finds the perfume Azuma wears so frequently addicting. And so he kisses back.

It ends not long after that. Azuma pulls away first, and Tasuku sits and processes all that’s transpired in the last thirty seconds.

“I don’t want you to think that this is all just because of Tsumugi,” he says immediately.

He’s surprised when Azuma chuckles mirthfully : not a trace of jealousy or regret to be had. “Oh, I know it’s not all just because of dear Tsumugi-kun. I’ve had your eyes on me for a while, too. Reed wetting and all.”

Tasuku feels his face burn. “That’s how you play the instrument!”

Izumi taps her finger along with the tempo behind her conductor’s stand : titled towards her at a slight angle as per Sakyo’s request that none of them see her keeping tempo. And, for their part, the three of them are doing a fantastic job at maintaining an allegro pace. She can expect the control from Sakyo and Taichi, but Guy’s keeping his wits about him as he plays, too.

The piece is just a small portion of a Sousa march, which, while for beginners can be intimidating and quick-paced for all the eighth notes often thrown in, is nonetheless a beginner’s level piece. The three of them have stylized the music each to their own level, however. The notes that Guy works through on his trombone are the written music, save for some accents and slides that she assumes Sakyo has coached him through. Sakyo has taken up a supporting role and sustains double whole notes to give some deeper color to the piece. His breathing techniques have improved, and his breaks to suck in a quick breath come after every twelve measures now instead of his former eight. And Taichi plays a 2nd melody line that Izumi can only assume they’ve collaborated together in writing.

They’re finishing up their D.C. al coda, and Izumi appreciates the three measure hold on the last note by all three of them. They break for air. Guy’s face is flushed and carries a tinge of red.

Izumi claps her hands together. She really couldn’t be prouder of Guy’s efforts in stylizing and furthering his abilities on the trombone, as well as Sakyo and Taichi’s patience in coaching and supporting him through his progress. And so she tells them precisely that.

“You three have come so far in supporting each other as our bass section,” she praises and leans down on her stand. “Your sound is really coming out much richer and balanced than before. It’s like I can feel something specific when you play together now. This piece you three have arranged together : you’re all focusing on the _music_. It’s a great sound for you.”

They squirm in bashfulness under her praise, and she grins all giddy. This is why she’s a band director : there’s no questioning whether coming here to teach was a good idea or not. She wouldn’t give up this group even for her old high school company.

“Guy,” she turns to him, “can I ask how much time you put into this piece?”

He glances to Sakyo and Taichi to check for confirmation as he replies, “We’ve been practicing this for three weeks now. It was the first piece that Furuichi-san gave me after we had completed reviewing the first half of our beginner’s learning book.”

Izumi hums and turns to Sakyo. She’s surprised that her grumpy third-year had been so adamant in putting the newcomer through the motions. Sakyo sports a healthy blush.

“And Taichi, how long did you spend on your second melody?”

“Furuichi-san helped me with it, but we wrote it in an afternoon,” Taichi turns to Sakyo. “Right?”

“Right,” Sakyo affirms.

Izumi swells with pride. If only her trumpet section would cooperate as well as her bass and clarinets. Speaking of her clarinets, she spares a quick glance over to the trio huddled together on the other side of the seating rows. Hisoka and Omi seem to be coaching Sakuya on connected notes.

“Director,” Guy says, and Izumi’s attention snaps right back like a rubber band. She turns to him with an inquiring expression and leans back down onto her stand. “I was wondering if it would be possible to take my trombone home with me to practice outside of school.”

Izumi realizes that, despite how frequently she had lugged home her trumpet along with her friends, none of her students except for Tasuku (who had his own saxophone at home, apparently) practice outside of club meetings. Her pause must come across as hesitation, though, because Guy apologetically tries to explain himself.

“It’s just that I do not wish to slow Furuichi-san’s practice by causing him to spend so much time coaching me. I also hope to be able to contribute to the band club as much as it is teaching me, so I had thought that, by taking home the trombone, I could continue to get better.”

“Oh, I totally get it!” Izumi assures. “My friends and I always took our instruments home. Hmm, as for being able to do it _now_ , I’ll probably have to run it by the principals. They’ll probably want some form of responsibility agreement on my end in case anything happens to the instruments off school grounds.”

“You might run into funding concerns if you ask,” Sakyo mentions.

Izumi hums in agreement. “That’s true, too.” She turns back to Guy. “I’ll ask admin about it and get back to you : how does that sound? Give me… let’s see, maybe a week to draft a request and submit for a meeting?”

Guy bows a little lower than he really needs to. “Thank you very much.”

Izumi and Sakyo share an amused smile.

Today is clarinet and flute sectionals’ day, though, so her time with her lower brass is coming to a close. She’s about to offer them one last encouragement and say her farewell. And, then, the band room door slides open. She spares a small glance to see if Tsumugi’s brought Itaru back for their sectionals too early.

Instead, a tall kid with deep purple hair stands peering into their room with a disapproving scowl etched onto his facial features.

“Uh,” she whispers to the side.

Sakyo offers his trombone to Guy, who accepts it without question.

“Who on Earth is that?”

Taichi follows their gaze over to the door and straightens up in his chair instantaneously. “That’s Hyodo Juza!” he whispers to them frantically. “Oh my God, he’s in my class. Everyone says he’s really strong. Apparently, he beat up one of the kids from Sakuya-kun’s class a buncha times after school!”

“ _Huh?_ ”

“He’s so cool,” Taichi sighs. “Director, can I invite him in?”

Izumi’s still processing the tidbit of information on this kid’s after-school activities as Taichi leaps to his feet – euphonium and all – and skips right over to the door. For his part, the new kid’s scowl softens when he recognizes Taichi, and they seem to immediately fall into a friendly enough conversation.

She looks over to Sakyo. His expression is decidedly pinched. He looks away from the pair at the door and meets her eyes.

“Well?” he sighs. “You’re the director.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” she replies dryly. He smirks.

Izumi hoists herself up from her chair and approaches the duo hogging the doorway. As she comes closer, she picks up on the trail of Taichi’s excited chattering.

“-really cool. I always wanted to have a window seat, but I always seem to get placed right in the front of the classroom. It’s so not fair! Right? I wanna be cool and stare out the window all composed during class, too, y’know?”

The kid grunts. “‘S hard to pay attention. Keep getting low grades ‘cause ‘f it.”

“It’s okay! My grades are always kinda low, too!”

Izumi positions herself beside Taichi and glances between the two of them.

“Director!” Taichi gestures her to step even closer. “This is Hyodo Juza ; he’s one of my classmates! Juza-san, this is our band director. She’s super good with all our instruments and super cool!”

Rather unexpectedly, the kid bows to her instead of just offering a polite nod.

“I’m sorry for interrupting the club’s practice time.”

“Oh, no, no, it’s no problem,” she assures. She gently waves for him to stand up straight. “It’s only the beginning of club time, after all. We’re all only just finishing warm-ups. What can I do for you?”

“I want to join the wind symphonic club.”

It takes a moment for the words to click.

“I know it’s already a month into the school year,” the kid grits his teeth. “But I've thought about it, and I want to join. I... feel strongly about music. I always have. If you would have me, I’d dedicate all my time to practicing.”

Taichi beams at him.

“Well, you’re always welcome in,” Izumi manages. “We accept all levels of players and all levels of interest. Do you have any experience with playing an instrument?”

The kid winces. “None.”

“That’s totally okay! Almost half of our incoming students this year chose their instruments after the first week of getting familiar with the band. All of our instrument sections are still open for new members.”

That’s what she says, at least. She’s not sure if having another clarinet or trumpet would be the best right now, especially with the way that jealousy has transparently been building in Tasuku the longer he practices alone while the other sections enjoy healthy comradery. Maybe she _should_ encourage Hyodo towards bass with Taichi or saxophone with Tasuku.

And based on Taichi’s enthusiastic response to Hyodo’s presence, euphonium and tuba might be the best fit.

“So, Hyodo-kun,” she says and steps further back into the classroom, gesturing for him to follow. He does after a slight hesitation. “What does your connection to music and band look like? Is there any music or instrument you like particularly?”

He awkwardly stands rigid in front of her desk as she rifles through her filing cabinet for a new student form.

“I like the blues,” he mumbles. “Experimental jazz’s pretty cool.”

“Oh, yeah,” Taichi chirps. Izumi hadn’t been aware that Taichi was accompanying them. “I really like Bitches Brew, if you’ve ever listened to it. Kinda makes me wish I’d chosen trumpet, y’know?”

Hyodo glances to Taichi. A small smile forms on his lips. “Yeah, I like that one, too.” Taichi beams.

“Are you thinking trumpet, then?” Izumi asks. She finds the form she was looking for and pulls it out with a satisfying ‘swoosh’ of the paper. “Or do you have another instrument in mind?”

Fetching a pencil from her cup, she scribbles her name and stamps her signature down before sliding the paper over to Hyodo to fill out. He peers down at the paper and accepts the pencil after a moment’s hesitation. Slowly, and in messy handwriting, he begins to scribble his name onto the first line.

“Was thinking clarinet,” he admits. “Like the way it sounds.”

Hyodo, with his head down close to the desk, misses the tragic slip of cheer off of Taichi’s face. Izumi sympathizes with her euphonist. She can only imagine how eager Taichi had been at the prospect of having an admired classmate as his euphonium or tuba apprentice : a fellow instrument player much like Sakyo has in Guy.

“Clarinet’s a good choice,” she encourages, though. A student’s desire always comes first, after all. “We already have two clarinets, and Sakuya-kun plays the bass clarinet. I’m sure all three of them will be happy to have you.”

Speaking of which, she pops her head up and waves to grab Omi’s attention. The darling that he is, he immediately calls rest on their piece. Hisoka and Sakuya pull away from their reeds and blink in confusion until their gazes follow over to Izumi, Taichi, and Hyodo. Sakuya jumps out of his chair much like Taichi earlier. He comes rushing over to them.

“Juza-san!” he greets with wide eyes and small smile. “You’re joining band club?”

Hyodo startles. “Uh, yeah.”

“You know each other?” Izumi asks.

“Yeah! Well, only a small bit. Taichi and I have started eating together during lunch period, and Juza-san joins us every now and then, too!”

From the trumpet section, Masumi glances over his music stand at them.

“Is Banri-san joining band, too?” Sakuya asks.

“Settsu?” Hyodo’s head snaps up and turns to the door. It’s still open, and the hallway past it is empty. “Where is he?”

“Oh, no, he’s not here,” Sakuya corrects. “I just- I see the two of you together a lot. I guess I assumed he would join, too, if you were here.”

“He’s got no interest in these kinds of things,” Hyodo mutters and returns to the form.

“Oh. He usually leaves our classroom early to go find you, though.”

“Banri-san?” Taichi echoes. He turns to Hyodo. “Is he the one with kinda long hair that you beat up a bunch?”

“ _You beat Banri-san up?”_ Sakuya panics.

“Ah, well.” A heavy look of guilt weighs on Hyodo’s face. “He starts the fights.”

This doesn’t seem to placate Sakuya. Izumi is happy enough that this ‘Banri’ doesn’t seem to be joining the band, if this is the relationship between him and Hyodo.

“Hyodo-kun is interested in joining the clarinet section,” she tells Sakuya. This does manage to snag his attention off of 'Banri-san' for the moment. “Do you want to grab another clarinet from the instrument room for him? I was thinking we could go over the basics of assembling the clarinet, and Hyodo-kun can sit in and listen to the rest of your practice today.”

“Of course!”

Sakuya rushes towards the door. A call from Masumi distracts him, though, and he goes over to Masumi’s music stand. Whatever Masumi says to him is accompanied with a disapproving frown. Izumi watches as Sakuya’s expression turns from curiosity to confusion as Masumi speaks to him.

“Director,” Hyodo says. “What should I put for ‘intentions’?”

“Ah,” Izumi reluctantly looks away from Masumi and Sakuya. “Oh, whatever you’re hoping to get out of band club. It can be as simple as ‘pursuing a hobby’ or whatever proficiency level you hope to obtain by the end of the year.”

“Is intermediate too high?”

“Maybe stick with advanced beginner’s for the first year! I can definitely see intermediate by the end of next year, though!”

Hyodo ducks his head back down to fill in just that. As Izumi tries to catch the rest of Masumi and Sakuya's exchange, Sakuya hurries out of the band room with a small grimace twisting his lips. Masumi glares at his sheet music.

Tasuku sighs for the fourth time in the last five minutes and erases his answer for his current math problem. Azuma peeks over the book he’s reading for their literature assignment.

“Need help?” he offers.

“No,” Tasuku sighs : again. “I’m just distracted.”

He forgoes redoing the problem and instead picks up the now lukewarm mug of coffee sitting on the coaster. It's disappointingly colder than he had expected.

Azuma hums slowly and lowers the book. “By what?”

“We got a new band member today. And, of course, he chose one of the instruments we already have enough students playing. I wish the Director would set a cap on the sections. We only have one sax and one tuba, for God’s sake. But four clarinets.”

Azuma slowly begins to smile. Tasuku scowls.

“It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny seeing you so riled up,” Azuma teases. “I told you I’d consider joining.”

“Consider faster.”

It's seven in the evening, Tsumugi stares out the window by their table, trying very, very hard to calm down the blood vessels in his face. He shouldn’t be blushing through this entire date. Itaru might think he’s embarrassed to be out in public with him. While Tsumugi _is_ embarrassed to be on a date so obviously, he’s not embarrassed of Itaru : not at all. But the thought of being here makes another flare of heat dance over him.

He’s incredibly thankful that Itaru’s at the counter placing their order for the time being. Tsumugi can’t remember the last time he felt this exhilarated to simply drink coffee at a café with someone.

He’s curious to learn more about Itaru, too : what Itaru’s order will be, if he’ll have a small dessert or a sandwich or nothing, what he’ll want to talk about. Meeting someone – in the sense of sitting down and talking with them free of any obligation for the first time – is such a unique experience, Tsumugi thinks. The idiosyncracies of conversation have to be learned from the length of pauses between sentences to the ways in which body movement is utilized.

Everyone has their own way of talking, so specific to themselves and formulated based off of everyone they’ve met, that idle conversation can be entertaining and perhaps even more so than the pastimes usually considered ‘entertainment.’ Tsumugi already knows a little about the way Itaru communicates with others. He knows that Itaru often sticks to condensed sentences – one at a time – and quickly relinquishes his turn to his conversation partner. He knows that Itaru’s lips are his giveaway for emotion but that his eyes are remarkably hard to read. He knows, too, that Itaru has a wicked sense of humor based on his interactions with Citron, though Tsumugi’s yet to share a humorous conversation with him.

Tsumugi’s so wrapped up in his thoughts that he doesn’t realize Itaru’s joined him until he sees the chair across from him pulled out. Tsumugi startles a little, attracting Itaru’s attention.

“You okay?”

“Yeah!” Tsumugi breathes a little loudly and a little oddly. “I mean, yeah.” Itaru raises an eyebrow. “Sorry, I’m a little nervous. It’s been a while since I’ve been on a , well, um, well, a date.”

Itaru’s ears go a little pink in a cute little way that fascinates Tsumugi.

“Ah, yeah, me too.”

“You’ve dated before?”

This news somewhat surprises Tsumugi. While Itaru has a very pretty face and demeanor, he’s quiet in a way that Tsumugi can’t envision many girls having the interest to pursue.

“Yeah, a little,” Itaru admits. “I, um, went out with Citron for a few months towards the end of last year. Most of our dates were just trips to,” Itaru freezes, “the, uh, bookstore by the train station.”

“Oh, I love that place. Their academic section is usually very quiet and nice to read in.”

Tsumugi keeps private his surprise and, admittedly, disappointment that Itaru and Citron’s history is more than just friendship. He supposes it’s not that much of a surprise, though, with how comfortable they are around each other.

“There were other dates before Citron,” Itaru shrugs. “They’re not all great memories, though.”

Tsumugi hums. “Past dates can be uncomfortable to remember,” he agrees.

“You’ve dated before?”

“Ah, well, just Tasuku.”

“Does… Tasuku know about _us_?”

The way that Itaru emphasizes the word makes is cute : a way to get around the embarrassment of acknowledging them as an official couple now.

“Oh, yeah, he does. I asked him earlier this week if he was comfortable with us, actually. He seemed supportive.”

“Oh,” Itaru relaxes in his seat a little. “Good. I was really worried for a while that I was intruding on the two of your relationship. My sister – Emika – she said that you two had been dating for a while.”

“Dating’s… not perhaps the best way to describe it.” Tsumugi can feel his hands starting to shake in his lap, so he lifts one to rub at his neck. He leaves it there for the comfort of it. “It’s difficult sometimes. To know the difference between friendship and romantic interest. Especially when you’re childhood friends.” Itaru hums. “I mean, there are so many lines crossed in a childhood friendship that don’t get crossed in other friendships. So, I suppose it’s easy to get confused.”

Itaru nods slowly. “I understand a little, I think. It was like that for Citron and I. We’re not really childhood friends, though.”

“How did you two grow so close?” Tsumugi asks. “He’s only been studying in Japan for a year now, right?”

“Ah, yeah. We bonded over… books.”

“Books?”

“Fairytales?” Itaru supplies, though to Tsumugi’s ears it sounds confusingly like a question. “There’s a light novel that, I think, is based off of a video game. It might be the other way around. It’s called Knights of the Round : based loosely off of the Arthurian legends. He noticed me reading it one day and mentioned that he enjoyed it, too.”

“How lovely! I love old fairytales, too. For a while, I was really into modern musicals based off of them. There’s a small a capella performance based out of New York City that was based off a retelling of Arthur’s life from the perspective of the Lady of the Lake. It was all about how she might have felt about her adopted son Lancelot betraying the very king she had given Excalibur to.”

This seems to pique Itaru’s interest. “A capella?” he repeats. “So, like a theatre performance?”

“Exactly!” Tsumugi agrees. “I have a studio recording of their songs on a CD, if you’d ever like to borrow it. I first got interested in them because their flute solo in one of the songs is so pretty, but the story is good, too!”

“Apparently, the video game’s music is good, too. Sometime, we could exchange albums.”

“That sounds like it would be fun!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you Know itaru was internally vibrating at the speed of light for being able to talk about kniroun with tsumugi
> 
> "apparently kniroun's music is pretty good"  
> *music app log says he's listened to 'theme of excalibur' 100+ hours*


	10. talk, glitter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the expo is introduced, two boys have a chat by the train tracks, flutist date <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tsumugi glitter card im going insaaaaaaane (finals are also driving me insane, so i apologize for any mistakes (i dont wanna spend time revising rn ;-;))

Rain falls outside in a calm trickle. The water droplets on the window slip down the glass pane slowly, meeting up at times and joining together in their journey. In the silence of the band room, the soft patter on the room is just audible : tin patter echoing through the large space.

Izumi wouldn’t say that her favorite weather is a rainstorm, but it’s definitely a weather that she loves, deeply, and feels perhaps the most comfortable in. There’s no comparison for how cozy a rainy day can be when there’s a lot of work on the plate. And part of the reason is likely because nothing pairs better with a rainy day than a bun, muted clothing palette, and warm tea. And nothing goes better with that trio than a studious mood.

So, Izumi goes about her work in a fulfilled-sort of happiness. The request form for a meeting with the principals on instrument-renting to the students is simple enough to fill out, though it does require a lengthy fill-out for her current financial standing. She’s also sitting on a bundle of news for her band club students : something that a few of her students likely are already familiar with but the others likely not.

By the time the bell for sixth period rings, Izumi can practically feel herself glowing.

With her work out of the way, she’s spent the better part of the final hours in the school day going over her percussion section. Misumi’s increased attendance has meant less maintenance to keep the instruments prepped for playing, but there’s still the odd job to do around the piano and snares. Dusting, of course, takes forever. With the band wing so far out of the way, daily _osouji_ doesn’t often include her room. Instead, she and Sakyo split the cleaning here and there throughout the week.

The usual suspects are the first through the door. The third year classrooms are apparently closer to the band room than the other years, though in Izumi’s time it had been the first year classrooms closest. As such, Tsumugi and Tasuku come in with Homare and Hisoka, chatting together about odds and ends of plans for the weekend. As they settle into their chairs, Izumi catches bits of their conversations while shining the glockenspiel.

Apparently, Tsumugi went out to a small florist’s café with Chigasaki last night. Homare eagerly questions the poor boy about the event : about the conversation, the atmosphere, the drinks. Tsumugi flushes and fumbles through his answers. Tasuku asks if it’s the florist’s café a few train stops closer to Tokyo. Tsumugi confirms. Hisoka asks if Tsumugi had caved and bought one of the display flowers. Tsumugi protests that he doesn’t impulse purchase his flowers. Tasuku disagrees.

The chatter dissolves into friendly bickering from there : loudest of all being Homare’s ear-ringing declaration that he has, indeed, seen Tsumugi impulsively buy a “particularly ravishing” orchid hybrid “just three fortnights ago.” She watches, in amusement, as Tasuku tries to count his way through what three fortnights would entail.

The doors to the band room open and more of the club fills in. Kazunari and Misumi are joined at the hip – Kazunari dragging Omi along with them – and Sakyo and Guy talk quietly with each other, trombone cases in hand. Tsuzuru, too, comes in with his trumpet case and music binder. Sakuya and Masumi are the next to show up, and Juza and Taichi come in together a few minutes later. That leaves just Itaru and Citron left to show up.

“Everyone!” she calls, and there’s a general quieting of the conversations about the room. She gets the attention of the section chairs, at least, which is enough for her. “No sectional break-ups for today. Once Itaru-kun and Citron-kun show up, I’ll have a few announcements for everyone.”

“What about?” Tasuku asks.

“Well, you’ll see when those two show up.”

Tasuku frowns, and the rest of the third-years share smirks and giggles.

While everyone lingers, Izumi continues shining the glockenspiel. Misumi joins her eventually, having grown disinteresting in the conversation that Omi and Kazunari are having, bent over a glossy and expensive-looking photo album. They split the job : Izumi on the natural keys and Misumi on the half-steps.

It isn’t until another ten minutes have passed that Izumi starts to get worried. She asks Guy if Itaru and Citron had told him of a plan to skip club, but he shakes his head and echoes her own worries with his own. He offers to look for them, but it’s in that moment that the band door finally slides open.

The first thing that Izumi registers is the hard line of Citron’s mouth and the stern crease of his eyebrows, mostly because she can’t recall seeing Citron ever not be a human capsule of joy. It takes her aback until she sees that Itaru’s not much better, and his eyes are a little red. Guy immediately waves them over.

“What happened?”

“It would be better to explain later at home,” Citron says quietly. His hand rests on Itaru’s shoulder gently.

“Would you like to take the day off?” Izumi offers. “If the three of you would like some time, you’re welcome to take it.”

Citron and Guy share a glance that speaks volumes to their closeness as cousins.

“You are kind, Director,” Citron says, “but we do not want to cause trouble to the band club because of…” He struggles to find the word, “taking… a day off and… being bad… at the things we would have learned if we had not taken off.”

“We do not wish to cause inconvenience by falling behind in our lessons,” Guy compounds. Citron nods in agreement.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. Club activities should be second to mental and emotional needs.” The two of them don’t look very convinced, so she makes the snap decision and adds, “I was going to call today a short session and let everyone go home early anyways.”

Itaru’s lip wobbles. “Thank you,” he mumbles.

“If you could stay for the announcement I had planned, though, that would be appreciated. I don’t know how… heavy this is, though.”

“It’s not very heavy,” Itaru protests, though his weight leaning into Citron’s side tells Izumi otherwise. “It’s just been a long day.”

“I totally understand,” Izumi assures. “I’ll get up there to say my part now, and you can decide if you want to stay another ten minutes or leave now.”

He nods, and Izumi starts off for her podium, keenly aware of Sakyo’s questioning look following her. From behind, she hears Misumi approach Itaru cautiously.

“Itaru-san, it’s okay! You can have the triangle for today. It’s my favorite instrument.”

It’s such a high school thing, Izumi thinks to herself caught between fondness and concern, to have days where you can’t help but cry at school. Tightly-knit friend groups, the pain of insults, the pain of rumors, it’s all so indicative of the setting she’s teaching in. She’s surprised but reassured to see Itaru slip away from Citron’s side and join Tsumugi in the flute chairs. Citron, too, sits with his section in the trumpet row. They both dodge questions : Itaru whispering something to soothe Tsumugi’s concern and Citron waving off the raised eyebrow Tsuzuru sends his way.

The announcement is thrilling enough to waive her concern for now. She’s prepared quite a bit for it, too, and she heaves the box of CDs onto her conductor’s podium. Then, she has to stand a little to the side. Being 5’ 1” has its disadvantages.

“Alright!” She already has everyone’s attention, so there’s no beating around the bush to this one. “I’m sure a few of you are already acquainted with what I wanted to talk about today. Particularly the senior club members.”

She sees it click in Tasuku, Tsumugi, and Sakyo’s eyes. They all sit a little straighter in their chairs.

“Around late November of every year,” she begins, “Veludo high school concert bands and orchestras put together a string of performances at Fleur Hall. The whole thing only lasts two days, but the concert portion is just a single day. Sometimes scouts from music schools attend, especially if there’s an expectation for strong solos that year. So, most of them would know it as the Fleur Competition, but locally we just call it the Veludo Expo.”

Mild curiosity rests on half her band students. The other half seems actively interested. She’ll take that as a positive indicator.

“Now, of course, we only have a beginner’s level capability for pieces that we could perform together as an entire band. So, competing in the expo is somewhat out, especially in comparison to some of the current powerhouses for wind symphonic and orchestra. That being said,” she lingers for maximum effect, “I had still hoped that the rest of you would like to experience performing publicly.

“So! Before we get into music or logistics, I wanted to put things to a club vote first. There are a few options at our disposal. The first is that we can compete altogether and focus on putting our best out there, showing what we can all learn in a half-year’s time. The second is that we stage auditions and let those who pass perform while the rest of us work support. And the third, of course, is that we only send some soloists to the expo.”

There’s a small murmur between her trombones and trumpets. Her guess is translating into simpler terms some of the trickier vocabulary.

“I guess I was thinking we could put it to a vote now,” she says, “and I’ll distribute music ideas depending on what we decide.”

A hand from Sakyo.

“I propose that we erase the third option. I realize I have some interest in this, but I believe the third years should all have an opportunity to perform on the stage – auditions or not – since this is their last chance before graduation.”

A few nods corroborate his opinion.

“Alright,” Izumi agrees, “does anyone disagree?” And, as expected, not a single hand goes up. “Then, the question is audition or no auditions.

“Of course, performing with auditions will mean that some of us won’t be held to higher expectations of performance and acting as support to those who pass auditions. Likewise, having no auditions will mean that we will all be able to perform onstage together. Most schools choose auditions. But, for those of you who are here for the community of our club, not having auditions might be more fun and offer everyone an equal chance.

“So, with this in mind, whoever wants to structure the performance through an audition, raise your hand.”

Tasuku’s and Tsuzuru’s hands are up without hesitation. Izumi can’t say she’s surprised, necessarily, by either’s answer. Tasuku is a music enthusiast through and through with emphases on perfection and success. Tsuzuru, too, comes from a line of musicians who owe their careers to the idea of what constitutes successful music and performance.

Taichi’s hand goes up, too, along with Masumi’s. She can still understand their thought processes. Taichi wants the respect and praise an audition would reward him with. Masumi is much the same with an extra dash of disdainfulness towards the club’s casual members.

And, then, Kazunari raises his hand from back in the percussion row. Misumi throws him a nasty glare.

And while Izumi can’t quite understand the venom behind the look, she can understand the shock. After all, Kazunari had always struck her as an inclusive, anti-competitive type of person : from the way he speaks with Sakuya to the way he seems to casually interact with both the band and art clubs.

But a vote’s a vote, and, either way, ‘no auditions’ wins by a landslide.

“Alright,” she chirps, “no auditions it is.”

Tasuku keeps his hand raised. “Director, can I speak?”

Izumi nods her permission, and Tasuku takes the chance to stand up from his seat. He turns himself to address the rest of the band, and they turn to him curiously.

“I think everyone should know what a performance of our size, especially without auditions, will entail for us.”

“Tasuku,” Tsumugi interrupts harshly, frown weighing on his face.

“They deserve to know,” Tasuku argues back. “We’ll be the laughing stock of the competition. As a high school band, they’ll be expecting a fifteen minute piece with a few solos. Some of our sections will have to count into the hundreds in their head as they wait between rests. High school level pieces are supposed to be at the upper level of intermediate. We won’t be able to do that. So, if we bring a fancy version of ‘Hot Cross Buns’ to the table, we’ll get nothing but ridicule from the other schools.”

Tsumugi stands up to match him. “It’s equally important to consider what’s best for _us_ , regardless of what the other schools and judges might think. We have third years among us that have been working hard to learn their instrument. I know Sakyo-san has spoken highly of Guy-kun’s efforts on the trombone, and both Homare and Hisoka have come far on their own instruments.”

Guy’s face goes a blotchy red at the public praise, and he lowers his gaze to his lap. Sakyo nudges his shoulder with an affectionate scoff.

“I think everyone deserves the chance to perform for others,” Tsumugi argues. “Even the first-years who have more opportunities to come.”

The two of them turn to Izumi, and the rest of the band’s eyes follow. In a way she hadn’t been expecting, she feels very put on the spot.

“We can always do a re-vote with these considerations in mind,” she suggests. “Who still wants to do auditions for the performance.”

Sheepishly, Tsuzuru raises his hand. Unabashedly, Tasuku and Masumi do the same. Kazunari and Taichi’s remain down : their faces betraying a certain level of guilt following Tsumugi’s speech. That definitely settles it for her.

“No auditions, then,” she says softly. “Which!” She hopes that this will lighten the now-tense atmosphere that Tsumugi and Tasuku have brought into the room. “Means that we have a few options for our performance pieces.”

Tsumugi and Tasuku take their seats quietly as she snatches a CD case from the box. Itaru leans in and whispers something to Tsumugi.

“I fully admit I kind of expected the vote to have this outcome,” she laughs, “so I prepared the CDs ahead of time. There are three tracks on the disc : one for each of you to take home. If you would all give it a few listens and think about it for, let’s say, four days, we can put it to a vote on Wednesday. If any of you want to see the sheet music, I have one copy per section that you can all take a peek at.”

She swings the box over to Itaru and lets him take it from her. He lifts one of the jewel cases out of the box and examines it for a moment before passing the box to Tsumugi, who does much the same. Thus, the ‘take one and pass it down’ tradition of class materials distribution swings into effect. Sometimes, teaching is as amusing as it is stressful.

“The first track is the trickiest of the three,” she explains. Dragging her stool up onto the podium stand, she takes a seat and pulls out her conductor’s sheet music to flip through. “It’s rather well-respected as a low-intermediate piece. Trumpets, flutes, and percussionists will have the most pressure to perform at their best. It’s supposedly based off of Shakespeare’s _Merchant of Venice_ and is titled as such. Super good piece but difficult.

“Second piece really couldn’t be more different in terms of concert pieces. It’s a saxophone concerto, which there aren’t many of, and we’d be relating on our resident saxophonist for much of the performance.”

Various gazes flicker over to Tasuku. He returns a few of them before hesitantly turning back to Izumi.

“I’d be willing to do it.”

“You don’t have to commit to it now!”

Izumi hopes that his willingness to perform and represent doesn’t come across as an expectation to the rest of the band members on how to vote. But judging from Tsumugi’s soft frown, she’s willing to bet that at least some of her band members will vote for the other two selections.

“The third piece,” she says and turns to the new booklet she had bought a few weeks ago, “is a beginning intermediate piece. It requires a lot of sitting and counting through measures, since it’s based off of section solos. It’s not as difficult as _Merchant of Venice_ , but you will all still have to put in dedication and practice time into your playing.

“So! Take your time listening through them ; I have sheet music to page through, too, if you like. And make sure you have a selection in mind by Wednesday.”

She keeps Tsumugi, Tasuku, Sakyo, Tsuzuru, and Taichi behind while everyone else files out of the band room : free for the weekend. Solo performances are an exciting opportunity for any music school hopeful, and she’s excited to see who will decide to enter. Since each school can only send one soloist per instrument, she’s glad that her band is small enough to make the selection easily. If there were two stellar euphonists or flutists, she’s not sure how’d they handle the situation outside of seniority.

And her students seem to have a grasp on what she wants to talk about.

“It’s about the solos, isn’t it?” Sakyo asks.

She hums happily and moves to sit down in one of the band chairs. It feels good to rest her legs after the scrutiny of the entire band on her for the announcement.

“Well, based on all of your interest in the band and in your instruments, it’s a really good opportunity to build a music school application. Veludo Expo usually does get a few big scouters here and there.” She looks between them with what she hopes is properly conveyed enthusiasm. “If any of you’d like to enter, I’d be happy to work with you on your pieces!”

There isn’t a huge response to that, which she thinks is a little odd. By now, she had thought, at least one of them would have leaped on the opportunity.

“Sooo,” she leans back, “is… that a no?”

Tsumugi shifts in his chair. Taichi’s been keeping his head down the entire time. She raises a curious eyebrow at Tasuku, who doesn’t respond but instead looks off into a corner of the band room behind her. Tsuzuru doesn’t seem to want to say anything if his senpai are keeping quiet.

Finally, Sakyo graces her with some mercy.

“Would we really have enough time to prepare a piece competitive against other soloists?” he asks. “Would we really have funding to bring the instruments to the competition and enter in the raffle?”

Privately, Izumi thinks a five-hundred yen entry fee and thousand yen competition fee isn’t a lot of money to pay for a competition that could win them a music school entrance or even scholarship. But seeing the genuine concern on Tsuzuru and Sakyo’s faces, she supposes she can understand situations where a two-thousand yen day trip might be a bit much for some people.

“Well, I’ll pay for you,” she offers. It wouldn’t hurt, and both of them definitely deserve the opportunity. “If we can’t get funding from the school, I’d pay for anyone who couldn’t easily afford it : permission-wise _or_ financially.”

Sakyo stares at her. “Really?”

“Of course.”

The faintest outline of a smile graces his lips. “Well, that’s alright, then.”

“So… you’ll audition?”

“If my band director requests it, I can’t really refuse.”

And _there’s_ the shit-eating grin she’s grown accustomed to. Sometimes, he really is just insufferable. She turns to her other four students.

Tsumugi shares a glance with Tasuku. “Well,” he says slowly, “I suppose there’s no reason not to, right?”

“It’ll depend on the performance selection,” Tasuku shrugs. “If people vote for the second piece, I’ll want to put all of my energy into perfecting the piece. If not, then I’ll put my energy into perfecting a solo performance.”

“Well,” Izumi tries, “you don’t have to decide on it now. You can have a week to think about pieces, talk with me, talk with your families maybe.” An assortment of nods. “I _will_ say, though,” and she eyes her three third-years, “that I really hope the three of you decide to compete. If not for music school scouts, then at least to catch the opportunity while it’s still there for you.”

It’s once Juza’s half of the way home and decides, in an odd decision of the moment, to spend some time by the train tracks, that he sees Settsu for the first time since their ugly fight in the river last Friday : a whole week ago now, though it seems simultaneously like it was a year ago and just last night.

He’s not thinking about it when he ducks through the rose of Sharon bushes and through the tear in the metal wire fencing that he and Settsu cut through back when they were still in elementary school. Instead, he’s thinking about the CD case in his hands, mulling over the reality that he’ll be able to perform on a stage doing the very thing he loves most with one of the songs in his hands. So when he does realize that there’s another person on the patch of grass and gravel by the train tracks, he flinches and then reflexively bunches his fists up for a fight.

And then he realizes that it’s Settsu on the grass, watching him through a venomous glare. His jaw’s still busted with a pretty large bruise from the last punch Juza had thrown that night. Seeing it fills him with a horrible sense of guilt. Then, he notices the curry bread in Settsu’s hands.

“The fuck’re ya eatin’ out here for?”

“The fuck do you care?” Settsu shoots back.

Blindingly hot anger floods Juza’s vision for a moment before he catches himself. That bruise on Settsu’s chin is _his_ fault : no one else’s. If they part ways today with another bruise on Settsu’s face, it’ll also be Juza’s fault.

He tears his eyes away. There’s a small silence as Juza stares across the train tracks and Settsu bites his way through the last of the curry bread.

“Last week,” Juza mumbles, “sorry ‘bout that.”

“Huh?”

“Sorry ‘bout last we-”

“I heard you the first time, dipshit.”

Juza turns back to Settsu, ready to knock the guy’s lights out, and catches himself – for the second time in the last minute – when he sees that Settsu isn’t actually angry at him. Yet. Instead, he’s got a weird face on that Juza can’t wrap his head around.

Settsu seems to catch on that Juza’s staring and lifts his chin to meet Juza’s eyes. Juza hates that the eye contact makes something inside him squirm with discomfort.

“Haven’t seen ya in while,” Juza finally says and shoves in hands into his pockets. “You finally done?”

Settsu scoffs quietly and lowers his chin once more. A small breeze picks up, and the rose of sharon rustles noisily behind them.

“I don’t need to go to school every day, idiot. They don’t grade ya just for attendance.”

Though he’ll never admit it aloud, Juza’s mind immediately volunteers to himself the reminder that, with his shit grades, he can’t afford to miss a single day out of the year. Fat chance in hell he’ll ever tell Settsu that, though, so he keeps his mouth shut.

May is a nice enough month, he thinks. The breeze doesn’t feel too cold. The temperature’s picked itself back up off its ass. Even today’s earlier rain is only a few clouds to the south now. The CD case he’s shoved into his bag is still on his mind a bit, along with the Director’s explanations. November’s a while off, and it’s hard to keep in mind what a good late autumn piece would sound like when he’s surrounded by the familiar scents and sights of late spring.

“You haven’t come around lookin’ for me,” Settsu mumbles, suddenly, and Juza remembers that he’s still with the guy.

He’s not sure how to feel about that comment, either. He’s got no reason to be looking for Settsu.

“Why would I?”

Settsu casts him a vicious glare. “Why?” he spits. “You wanna fucking ask _me_ that?”

“Settsu, stop.” And, oddly enough, Settsu does stop a little : returns to sitting instead of continuing to stand up. “Whatever ya want from me, y’ain’t gonna get it.” Settsu’s eyes narrow. He opens his mouth to speak, and Juza doesn’t let him. “I got other shit to worry about.”

“Like what?” Settsu immediately fires back. “What’s on _Hyodo Juza’s_ mind?”

“Nothing.”

There’s no way he’s telling Settsu about band club, but he realizes what he just said was stupid as it could have possibly been. And, sure enough, it rubs Settsu the wrong way : like most things Juza says to him.

“You just said you got shit to worry about that’s more important than me, asshole. God, you’re such a fucking dumbass.”

“I ain’t dumb. I just…”

“Uh huh,” Settsu rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Don’t tell me. See if I care.”

Settsu very, very transparently cares. Even Juza can see this much. He still feels bad for him, a bit, somewhere inside of himself. He really shouldn’t, he knows. None of this is because of what he’s done. But to know that seems to go directly against everything Settsu’s been saying and acting, and that doesn’t set right with Juza either.

Settsu may be a complete fucking asshole with an irredeemable personality, but, as long as Juza’s been around him, he’s never been _wrong_.

Juza clears his throat uncomfortably.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll… get going.”

He ducks towards the fence line and rose of sharon.

“Leave the door unlocked for me later.”

Juza freezes, then turns to Settsu : face scrunching up in confusion. “Huh?”

Settsu isn’t looking at him. He sits on the wet grass, mud soaking his school uniform’s pants, and stares out eastward along the tracks. A pair of titmice flutters to a landing further down the tracks and peck at the ground. One snaps at the other for taking its seed.

“I gotta shower and wash my clothes somewhere,” Settsu sighs, still not looking at him. “Kinda running low on days I can skip.”

“Yeah,” Juza finds himself agreeing before he really goes through the thought process of deciding on an answer, “you know when Mom goes to bed, so. Make it after that.”

Settsu makes a small hum of agreement, and Juza takes the quiet moment to slip away.

On Saturday, two other pairs discuss the expo audition pieces alone together. Sakuya and Taichi crowd a piano bench in their music store of choice for hanging out after club hours together. They chatter eagerly about the expo : bonding even closer over their excitement towards performance, pieces, and personal pursuits. In another store in the same neighborhood, Itaru and Tsumugi peruse the selection of merchandise for the video game _Kojikiden_ : an old DS-based game that Itaru had once played out of genuine interest in the game and Tsumugi had once played out of curiosity of how classical Japanese could be transformed into a game.

Both hide bits of their story from the either. To Tsumugi, Itaru had played the game out of respect for the art style and music. To Itaru, Tsumugi had played the game because someone had leant it to him.

They speak quietly in the otherwise boisterously vibrant gaming merch store : shoulders brushing. Tsumugi lifts a small plush off its display stand and coos at the intricate red embroidery before showing it off to Itaru.

“Oh, you can only win those from the claw machine over there,” Itaru points to the back wall along with the other claw machines. “It’s such a scam.”

“Ah, that’s a shame.” Tsumugi gently replaces the display plush. “Its little nose is so cute, isn’t it? It reminds me of my puppy at home.”

“You have a puppy?”

“Oh, he’s not really a puppy anymore, but I always call him that anyway. He’s a cute little long-haired dachshund.”

“Yeah? What’s his name?”

Tsumugi laughs a little to himself. “I named him when I was _really_ young, please don’t judge me for this.” Itaru matches his smile with his own curious and bemused one. “His name is The Bee, but, well, I couldn’t pronounce English very well as a kid, and so Zabi kind of… stuck.”

Itaru’s lips twitch a moment before he lets out a laugh, and Tsumugi chuckles along.

“Zabi’s cute,” Itaru half-teases and half-encourages. “What was the thought process behind ‘The Bee,’ though?”

“Well, he was a little nippy as a puppy.”

Itaru laughs again. “I’ve always been more of a cat person, but my mom’s allergic to dogs _and_ cats, so we never had a pet growing up.”

“That’s a shame. They’re really sweet to live with.”

Itaru hums in agreement before turning and eyeing the claw machine. On a good day, he can get a plush within five tries. Maybe he’ll be able to show off for Tsumugi, if his stars are aligned and the gods of luck bless him.

“Wanna see if I can grab one of the plushes?”

“Oh,” Tsumugi follows his line of sight over to the claw machines. “Isn’t it expensive, though? And you’re not sure if you’ll get it.”

“I’ll stop after a thousand yen,” Itaru promises.

Tsumugi worries his bottom lip a little with his teeth before nodding. “Alright, I’ll cheer you on.”

Itaru sends a last prayer to the gods of video game luck. He’ll accept a shitty ten pull on his favorite gatcha later tonight if it means just this. He snags out a hundred yen coin from his jacket pocket and flips it twice for good luck – not an actual practice, just his own personal superstition – and thinks about the three foot Pikachu he won the last time he flipped twice before pushing it into the slot.

Tsumugi presses close to his side as Itaru steadies his nerves with a small exhale and goes over to the button. These sorts of machines are the two-button type. He’ll have to see how fast the crane moves, stop it at the correct horizontal, and then judge and pray that he lines up the vertical correct, too, once the crane starts its second movement towards the back. He hits the start button.

When he hits the button, and the crane begins its backwards trip, Tsumugi’s fingers tighter into the sleeve of his jacket. Itaru hits the second button and they both lean in as the claw goes down.

And it snags the leg of the plush just enough to lift it, unsteadily up.

“Oh my God, you did i-" and then the jolt of the claw hitting its base is enough that the plush drops backs down into the pile. Tsumugi laughs nervously. “I think I jinxed it. Sorry.”

“Nine more coins to go,” Itaru shrugs with a smile and flips the next coin twice before sliding it into the machine.

They burn through seven more coins without much success. With two left, Itaru is actually starting to sweat. He had really been counting on the gods of luck to bless him for this. He flips the coin twice and shoves it into the slot.

And, somehow, by some stroke of miraculous luck, he snags the plush. And the plush doesn’t fall until it’s over the prize slot. The small congratulatory dinger goes off, and the win counter on the machine slides up a number. Tsumugi and Itaru stare at the prize slot and the plush waiting inside in mute shock.

Then, Tsumugi is the first to break it. “Oh… my…” he tugs on Itaru’s sleeve, “you did it!”

“I… did.”

Itaru really can’t believe his luck went from shit to gold so quickly. Tsumugi opens the prize slot’s flimsy plastic curtain and pulls the plush out : holding it out at arm’s length in wonder. Tsumugi laughs incredulously.

“I thought these machines were impossible to win!”

“They almost are,” Itaru murmurs and gently takes it to squeeze in his hands. A cute little _Kojikiden_ wolf plush : that _he_ won. “I was absolute trash on them until Citron trained me on the arcade ones.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you liked going to the arcade!”

Wait, Itaru panics. Pause game. Pause game. “Uh,” he says. He can’t have Tsumugi know he’s just a nerd with good presentation skills. People don’t like nerds. Citron’s a fascinating exception to this, but Itaru knows that most normies don’t like nerds. Weebs. Whatever. “Uh, I sometimes go with Citron. He likes… some of the games there.”

“That’s really neat!” Tsumugi enthuses, seemingly unaware of Itaru’s struggle to respond. “I’ve never spent much time in an arcade.”

“It can be fun,” Itaru agrees cautiously. “You should see Citron on one of these things. I’ve never seen him not get something on the first or second try.”

“Maybe we should request his help on the Umi plush,” Tsumugi smiles and points a few machines down where, sure enough, one of the _Kojikiden_ side characters has their own claw machine. “We could win the whole collection!”

“Not sure he’d share his victories,” Itaru teases.

“Huh? But you are.”

“We’re dating, aren’t we?”

Tsumugi’s mouth forms a small little ‘o’ shape. “Oh, right,” a twinge of red creeps onto his face. Then, in affectionate accusation, “You didn’t tell me you were sweet like this.”

“I thought I said at the café I like the romance genre.”

Tsumugi flouders, and Itaru thinks it’s insanely cute. “Right! Yes, I, right. Well.” Now his whole face is red. “W- We should, um, do you want coffee?”

“It’s a little late for coffee, isn’t it?”

“Oh, um, oh, we could get ice cream. There’s a cute place around here, according to Miyoshi-kun. Tasuku said Miyoshi-kun was trying to talk Guy-san into going with him.” Tsumugi gently takes Itaru’s arm when Itaru offers it. “It might be fun to try.”

Itaru hands the plush over to Tsumugi and watches as Tsumugi boops the plush’s nose before tucking it into his jacket for safe travel holding. They exit the merch shop with a friendly wave to the cashier on Tsumugi’s part. Out on the street, the sun’s starting to set, though it’s later in the day than one would initially guess. The days are, indeed, growing longer.

“Which way to the ice cream shop?”

“Oh, um,” Tsumugi thinks on it. He brings out his phone and taps his way to the map app before typing in the name. His phone takes a stunning amount of time to process the search before the blue pin pops up on the map. “Um, right.”

And they set off down the sidewalk to their right.

“Itaru-kun? Can I ask you something?”

“Hm?”

“Well, I was a little curious about what happened yesterday before band club? You seemed upset when you came in with Citron.”

Ah, that. Itaru’s not sure he’s ready to talk about that yet.

“I got into a bit of an argument with an old classmate,” he explains as vaguely as he can without seeming like he’s dodging the question. “It, uh, kind of got mean towards the end. I guess I can get upset easily from fights. It wasn’t anything big.”

“Oh,” Tsumugi frowns and seems to reflect on this information. “Well, if that’s all, then I guess I’m happy it wasn’t anything bad.” Itaru hums slowly. Tsumugi gently gives him a questioning look. “It wasn’t anything bad, right?”

“Nothing bad,” Itaru lies.

And he swears that Tsumugi sees right through him. He’s not sure how else he can take the small downturn in Tsumugi’s eyes and lip corners before he turns back to looking ahead of them.

“Alright.”

They bump shoulders as they walk together, arms and sleeves rubbing against each other with a pleasant friction. Tsumugi’s light blouse – which doesn’t seem to fit him very well and is oddly baggy in the front – billows with friendly gusts of May wind. The lace fabric flutters a bit here and there, showing peeks of the pale tank top underneath.

“Have you listened yet to the CD Director gave us yesterday?”

“Hm?” Itaru blinks at the sudden shift in topic. “Oh, no, not yet.”

“They’re all lovely pieces that she chose,” Tsumugi muses into the early evening air. He glances at his phone. “Oh, we take a left here.” They cross the street and head west. “I’m looking forward to hearing which you like.”

“Ah, yeah.” Tsumugi offers a quizzical glance. “I, uh… I guess I should probably tell you this now.”

“Should we stop to talk?”

“No, no, we can talk while walking.” Tsumugi’s hold on his arm tightens reassuringly. “But… I’m not really sure how to put this other than… I’m not actually that interested in music.” Tsumugi blinks owlishly. “I joined the band because Citron wanted to have a friendly face with him that wasn’t his cousin. I… don’t actually have much interest in music or band.”

“I see?”

“I’ve been enjoying flute, though. My, uh, my excuse when I first joined – about being sickly – that’s not actually true. I guess I wanted to have an ‘out,’ so to say, if I got bored or… just didn’t like band.”

Tsumugi huffs a kind laugh.

“What?” Itaru asks curiously.

“I guess I don’t know why you’re telling me this.”

“Well… I didn’t want you to dislike me if I told you later. I already feel kind of guilty for letting you spend so much time helping me with learning the flute.”

Tsumugi does laugh aloud this time and quite boisterously, too. Itaru has no idea what he’s said that’s so funny, but he waits patiently and keeps his pace in match with Tsumugi’s steps as they continue down the street. A few passersby throw them odd looks.

“You don’t have to apologize for something like that!” Tsumugi finally manages to exclaim between laughs. “We’re not professionals, are we? We’re just high schoolers having fun together in a room for a few hours.”

“Well, when you say it like that, it does sound kind of stupid to worry about.”

“Not stupid,” Tsumugi assures, moving to rest his free hand on Itaru’s arm. “Really cute, actually.” Itaru feels his face go hot. “I don’t mind that wind symphonic isn’t your passion. I don’t mind if flute is just a thing to do for your friends. We’re all just supposed to be having fun.”

“Yeah,” Itaru mumbles. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Were you really that worried?”

Tsumugi’s eyes sparkle in mirth, and Itaru has a warning message pop up in his UI telling him that he’s in for some kind teasing for the rest of the night. Never mess with someone who has a crush on you, apparently, is what he’s learned.

“A little,” he quietly admits. Tsumugi laughs again all bell-like. “I guess… I’m nervous because I probably won’t have strong feelings towards any of the pieces Director gave us. I’m kind of anticipating them all to sound like background music to me. I don’t want to get in the way of others’ votes.”

Tsumugi hums more seriously in consideration of this. They take another right. Itaru can see the ice cream parlor a little down the street now. Tsumugi was right ; it does look cute and enjoyable : even just based on the small sign outside.

“Well,” Tsumugi says at length, “everyone has a different connection to music. It’s rare that someone really feels no emotion to music, though I suppose those sorts of people do exist. And there’s nothing wrong with them! But… maybe you just haven’t found the right link yet.”

Itaru considers this. “Right link,” he repeats. “What was your link?”

“Ah, well, that’s kind of embarrassing to say.”

“I’m all for embarrassing things about Tsumugi-san,” Itaru teases.

Tsumugi shoves at him gently. “Well, it’s embarrassing because I got into music at the same time as Tasuku. I don’t remember being interested in much other than how fun it was to go over music with him.”

“That’s not very embarrassing. I’m a little disappointed.”

“It _is_ embarrassing!” Tsumugi protests, worry written across his face. “Isn’t it like… embarrassing to talk about exes when on a date?”

“Tsumugi-san, we were talking about Citron five minutes ago at the claw machine.”

Tsumugi goes a little quiet. Then, “Ah, you’re right.”

The quiet moment stretches out a little. So, Itaru prompts Tsumugi to continue.

“There must have been a reason why you chose flute, though, and chose to stay with it. Even while Takato-san practiced on the sax.”

“Oh,” Tsumugi breathes. “You know, I hadn’t thought of that before now.” He’s started to worry his bottom lip again, which Itaru had come to understand as Tsumugi’s thinking tic. “I suppose… oh, well, this may _actually_ be embarrassing, but… I suppose it’s because I thought the flute was pretty.”

“I think I was hoping for something a little more impactful.”

“Hush,” Tsumugi shoves him again. “I always have liked pretty things. That sounds kind of silly, I realize. Everyone likes pretty things. But, for me, I associate the flute a lot with gardening?”

“… Gardening?”

Tsumugi hums in agreement. “I liked that, if you practice enough, your music can actually have beneficial aspects that encourage plant growth. I was much more interested in that when I was young, but, well, I suppose you could consider that and Tasuku as my ‘ins’ to band.”

“I wonder how that might translate to me,” Itaru sighs. “I don’t really see anything in the flute itself.”

“Give it a little bit of time,” Tsumugi encourages. “You might realize it in a few months or next year. And even if you’re not very into band, I’m sure all of us are still interested in your vote.”

Itaru’s still musing on that last bit as they reach the store. They let go of each other just for deniability’s sake - two boys holding hands going into a shop won't win them kindness points from staff - and step in through the open doorway one after the other. It’s cute on the inside, too. Itaru can see how someone loud and popular like Miyoshi would enjoy this place : between the window seating, the private booths in the back, and the garden seating that he spots out back.

“It’s cute,” Tsumugi says what Itaru thinks.

“Yeah.”

Itaru glances to the glass of the ice cream freezer and feels his brain stutter for a moment. What does ‘Cascading Orange Bubblegum’ taste like? What does ‘Glitter’ taste like? He squints. What, in the name of KniRoun, is ‘Lover’s Winter Sunset?’

“I think I know why Miyoshi was interested in this place,” he whispers to Tsumugi.

“Hm?” And Itaru knows when Tsumugi notices it because he goes stiff as a board. “Oh. Oh, I see.”

“We could get two scoops each and find out what some of these even tastes like.”

“Ah,” Tsumugi glances up at the prices. “Or we could split a sundae. That gives us three flavors plus some toppings.”

“Sundae it is. Fair warning, though : I _need_ to know what ‘Glitter’ tastes like.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rlly niche headcanon that only fits this fic's universe : when homare makes the decision to present himself in men's clothes outside of school, tsumugi volunteers to take some of the cuter pieces from homares old closet. this has resulted in tsumugi wearing sparkly spaghetti straps and lace blouses and some thigh-high stockings in his day-to-day outfits, much to bemusement of his fellow fuyu friends. homare now drags tsumugi out w him shopping, and they have a good friendship going where tsumugi wears the effeminate clothes and homare feels gender-affirmed by how much more masculine he presents in comparison
> 
> (also glitter ice cream would Totally just taste like birthday cake meets cotton candy meets marshmallow swirl)


	11. bare knuckles pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter ten and a half : the juban chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, drafting banri : "hes adhd gifted kid, so obviously his story of "always being a little behind but 'ahead of his age' in the things he Does get done" has be absolutely emotionally crushing"
> 
> me, writing banri : "and so hes an asshole. and he acts like an asshole. oh and even his internal monologue makes him to be an asshole."
> 
> tw // internalized homophobia (there's always gotta be that one character...)

Izumi is in the middle of instructing Juza how to clean the keys and cork of his clarinet with cleaning paper when the door to the band open slides open. She continues to slip the paper under the keys and checks to make sure Juza’s eyes are still on the instrument. They are, so she presses down on the key a few times to get it to press into the paper.

“So, it’ll soak up some of the moisture, if there is any, and keep your cork from getting moldy or disintegrating. Some people like to say they do this after _every_ time they practice, but I absolutely don’t buy that. You won’t have to worry about damp cork unless you’re playing for upwards of an hour.”

Juza nods earnestly, vigorously, and she offers him the paper to do a small practice run. In the meantime, she glances up to see who had quick slipped back into the band room.

Instead, she sees that someone is still standing in the doorway, and it’s a first-year student absolutely not dressed according to the school’s dress code. He’s eyeing the room up with an expression that’s very close to disdainful, but it looks a little too disinterest to properly be that. Unimpressed, for sure.

For a moment, she has to compose herself. She’s thrilled to have so many new people coming into the band. She didn’t even dare hope to hit ten students. But with how absolutely chaotic and mildly terrifying the newcomers have been so far – she particularly thinks of Citron and Homare as she thinks this – a seventeenth club member seems a little unwieldy.

“Oi,” Sakyo calls. “Who are you?”

Juza looks up and immediately snaps the clarinet reed between his fingers. Izumi feels her eyes bug out.

“W- H- J-” she sputters.

“Huh.” She tears her eyes away from the splinters of reed and towards the first-year. “Is this the band room?”

“Um,” she says, and the kid’s gaze swivels to her : eyebrow cockily arched and all. “Are you here for the band club?”

The kid huffs a little and shakes a hand at the same time he shakes his head. “Nah. ‘m here for that motherfucker.” And he points right at Juza.

Juza stands up abruptly from the chair, and Izumi barely manages to catch the clarinet case and and clarinet itself before they clatter to the floor. She’s about to chastise her student for treating the instrument so roughly, but Juza marches right part her and up to the other first year.

“The hell you doin’ here, Settsu?”

“Last I checked, I can go wherever I damn please.”

“Get out.”

“Nah. I wanted to see what you’re so _busy_ with. The band club? Really?” He leans into Juza’s face. “What’s so important in the _band club_?”

Izumi decides she doesn’t like that tone of voice, especially in reference to her club and its members. She sets the clarinet case down and stands up.

“Alright,” she snaps. “While we’re always happy to take in new members, unfortunately, since these are our practice hours, we can’t have disruptions by non-members.” She approaches the kid swiftly, and he steps back a little. “So, if you’ll excuse us, we’d appreciate it if you waited outside.”

“Get out,” Juza agrees.

The boy hums slowly and rakes his gaze up and down the both of them, then looks over to the rest of the band room. Every other student has stopped whatever they were doing and watches silently.

“You’re really a part of this group, Hyodo?”

“None of your damn business.”

He hums again : slower. Then, he grins. “Well. I might as well join, too.”

“Hell. No.”

“What, I can’t join a club?” the boy sneers. “You won’t let me?”

Juza balls up his hands into tight fists, and that’s the exact moment Izumi decides to step between the two of them. Seeing how both first-years tower over her, she wishes sourly that she had worn platforms or wedges. Having two boys almost ten years younger than her loom over her head is kind of pathetic even to her eyes.

“Alright, kid,” she huffs. “Let’s just calm down. You,” she eyes the newcomer, “what’s your name?”

“Settsu Banri.” He bends down a little and offers a grin that is entirely too purposefully ingratiating to make her feel comfortable. “Good at everything I do. I’ll be good at band, too.”

“Right,” she mutters. “Do you have any experience with music? Instruments?”

He shrugs. “Played a little piano when I was a kid, plus the usual stuff you’re forced to learn in elementary.” He seems to think it over. “Oh, and I guess my private school forced me to learn a bit of violin during music classes. Fuck that.”

Izumi hides the small noise in her throat. This is distressing. Hopefully, if she could just get him to sit down-

“Oh, and I used to fool around on the organ at church. _Not_ Christian by the way, that’s just my sister.”

“Your sister ain’t Christian,” Juza growls. “She just thinks the church’s pretty.”

“Same shit.”

Izumi catches Sakyo and Tasuku’s eyes as they stare wide-eyed over at the three of them. She raises an eyebrow for help, and they both shrug. She’s going to wring their necks later. Instead, it’s Tsumugi that leaps up from his chair beside Itaru and hurriedly makes his way over to her, clutching his flute tightly.

“Um,” he interjects timidly into the argument that Juza and Banri have managed to dive deep into.

The pair tears away from insulting each other long enough to glare at Tsumugi. Izumi feels a little bad for the kid when he flinches. He raises his flute slightly.

“Juza-kun already picked his instrument. So, if you’re interested in joining, do you have an instrument in mind?”

Banri huffs. He turns back to Juza. “Yeah? And what instrument is _Juza-kun_ playing?”

Juza shoves at Banri harshly. “Don’t call me that.”

“Boys! No fighting. There are instruments around.”

Tsumugi makes a small, uncomfortable laugh and gently takes Banri by the sleeve. The first-year puts up a bit of a fight, but Tsumugi is Tsumugi and even Banri is apparently soothed by Tsumugi’s gentle charm. And, with Banri under his enchantment, Tsumugi leads him over to the chair rows.

The three trumpeters all nervously avoid eye contact with them, and Tasuku and Sakyo follow suit. The clarinets, with seemingly no sense of self-preservation – other than Hisoka, who is currently sitting on Homare’s lap anyway – stare wide-eyed at Banri. Juza starts to follow after Tsumugi, but Izumi catches the kid by the shoulder. He frowns in confusion but stops obediently.

“Juza-kun,” Izumi says with a light tone. “I want to be clear that there will be no in-fighting in my band. Some of our members take very seriously the welcoming environment here, and I’m one of them.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Just call me Director, really.”

He averts his eyes abashedly and nods a little. Izumi bites back a sigh.

“You shouldn’t let Settsu in.”

That’s an odd thing to hear come from a student, she thinks privately. She’ll take for granted the seemingly-obvious history that the two boys share, but she’s not sure how willing she is to jump to believing all of what Juza says. Banri must have _some_ side of the story, as well.

So, she says, “Um, it _is_ a school club. Anyone can come in if they want.”

Juza shifts his weight where he stands. “It’s,” he coughs, “not like that. He won’t work hard. He’s just trying to get under my skin with this. Ruin things, I dunno. Settsu’s not… he’s not…”

“Juza-kun.” Izumi smiles when Juza finally meets her eyes. “If he’s bothering you, all you need to do is say the word. Otherwise, you don’t have to worry about it. I _am_ the director, aren’t I? I keep my kids in line. If Banri-kun wants to enter the band, then you can trust me with my students.”

Juza hesitates but nods. Izumi gives his shoulder a pat and draws back : starts to head over to Tsumugi and Banri. Sure enough, when she turns around, Banri’s watching them blatantly even as Tsumugi tries talking to him in a quiet but unauthoritative voice.

She braces herself and heads over.

“So, kid.” She sits herself down in the chair beside Tsumugi. She’s not afraid to use him as a buffer if he’s already volunteered. “You’ve played a fair number of instruments, then. You know which you’d like to play for our band?”

“Eh, whichever’s most difficult. You got somethin’ that everyone else struggles with?”

“It depends. Tsumugi, what do you think?”

“Huh?” Tsumugi jolts in his chair. “Um. Well. Flute can be difficult once you get into the higher registers. And the fingerings can be difficult. And we’re not given much space to breathe while playing, so we have to get creative there a bit.”

“You make flute sound so pretty,” Itaru hums and winks at Tsumugi.

Tsumugi’s face starts to go red. Clearly, this is some kind of inside exchange between the two of them. Banri catches it two and glances between them with a suspiciously narrowed gaze.

“But, um, flute’s not the hardest instrument by far.”

“Yeah?” Banri asks, casting a final inquisitive glare at Itaru, who doesn’t seem to take the dirty look well, before turning definitely to Tsumugi. “So, what is?” He seems enticed by this.

“Uh.”

Izumi tries to save Tsumugi. “Some say it’s the oboe. Some say it’s the violin. Other swear percussion or French horn is the hardest. The truth is that different people find different things hard.”

Banri considers this information. “So, what’s a difficult instrument for _me_?”

“Well. How good were you at the violin?”

“Best in my class, I guess. They all kinda sucked, though.”

Okay, Izumi reasons with herself. The attitude can be improved upon. It’s just like Masumi. She thinks about it. Well, this is admittedly a little worse. But, in any case, if he’s good with violin, then he’d probably be good on most of the trickier keyed instruments.

“How about general dexterity?”

He offers her a wicked grin, but his eyes stray behind her. “I’m great with my hands, thanks.”

That’s a little _too_ much information. The small grunt from Juza would confirm this. “Alright, why don’t we just try flute?” All of the stuck-ups in her wind ensemble had been on flute. With love to Tsumugi and Itaru, of course, but she’d be happy to have Tsumugi help her keep an eye on a resident ‘bitch flutist.’

Banri glances sidelong at Tsumugi, then lowers his gaze to the flute in Tsumugi’s lap.

“Guess I can try. Lotta keys, innit? You got a fingering chart or something?”

“Of course,” Tsumugi flips to the back of his practice book and bends the spine back so that the book lies open on the stand. “Just. No need to feel embarrassed if the notes don’t all come out! It usually takes a week or so to get the first five notes down, and longer for people to hit the F.

“The higher and lower you go, the harder it’ll be, too. I’m pretty bad with the high notes myself.”

“Uh huh,” Banri takes the flute in his hands. “Cool. How do I hold it?”

Izumi sits back and watches Tsumugi guide Banri’s hands to properly hold the flute, right hand pinching the rod system and the left hand cradling the body in the crook of the thumb and forefinger. Banri’s fingers are long : a blessing for anyone on an instrument that isn’t brass. He has no trouble reaching even the G# key.

“Alright,” Tsumugi leans back once Banri has the flute properly in his hands. “That’s good! Just remember to sit back and keep your wrists and lip relaxed. Try starting on, um, try with the C.” Tsumugi points at the middle register’s C.

“Cool. How do you go higher and lower?”

“Well, the faster your airstream is, the higher your note goes. It’s also good to rotate the angle of your breath so it goes over the embouchure hole rather than into it. Kind of like… changing tone when blowing over a bottle.”

“Cool.”

Juza watches Banri out of the corner of his eye, though it really couldn’t be more obvious.

Banri raises the flute to his lips and sways the flute a little to get a feel for the weight of it. Izumi hopes that not getting a note out at first won’t embarrass the kid too much. It’s not quite as simple as blowing over a bottle. But then Banri takes a breath and blows, and the C rings out rather clear. He cuts off his airstream, adjusts his position on the plate, and tries again. The note comes out even clearer.

Banri works his way down to the B, the B flat, the A, the A flat, the G, the F sharp, and the F. He pauses and comes back up, passing the C, hitting the C sharp, the D, the E flat, the E, F, and all the way up to the high register’s B flat before he loses the B. He adjusts again and picks back up. He hits the upper register C and does the full G to G scale.

Izumi blinks. Tsumugi’s mouth is slightly open. Itaru’s grimacing in his chair.

“Well?” Banri lowers the flute. “Perfect, right? Told ya I do everything good. Don’t even have to try.”

Izumi makes eye contact with Tsumugi. He doesn’t seem to know how to react either. Suddenly, Banri’s confidence is the least of Izumi’s concerns. She’s praying to every god she knows that Itaru won’t up and leave and that Tsumugi’s inferiority complex won’t worsen to the point where he stops.

“Well,” she clears her throat, “it wasn’t _perfect_ , but, yes, it was good for a beginner. Very good. Are you sure you haven’t played this before?”

“Nope. Just good at everything.” Banri offers the flute back to Tsumugi. “You got a harder instrument?”

“Shut the hell up,” Juza interrupts. “This isn’t a talent show. You picked the flute. Stick with it.”

“I don’t recall asking _you_ for _your_ opinion, dipshit.”

Izumi claps her hands, effectively cutting off whatever rebuttal Juza had ready. “Alright! Alright. Banri-kun, are you alright with staying on flute? We only have two flutists so far, and I think having a strong 2nd flute would really help support our 1st and 3rd melodies.”

Banri blinks. “Wait. Support? Did you not just hear that? I can play the lead.”

“I did! It sounded very good for a beginner. So, would you be willing to help support our 1st and 3rd melodies?”

Banri’s frowning, and Izumi hopes he’s at least smart enough to take the hint. She’s not about to replace Tsumugi, flutist of over five years and incredibly skilled for his age, with a beginner who happens to have an intuition with the embouchure hole. Tsumugi offers a small smile to Banri and pat on the shoulder.

“It’d be nice to have you in our section.”

Banri looks at Tsumugi at length, then looks to Itaru. Itaru raises an eyebrow neutrally. He doesn’t look thrilled with this development, but he’s keeping his facial expressions polite. Banri looks back to Tsumugi.

“Fine,” he says at length.

Izumi nods. “Great! Great, I’ll leave you three to it. Juza-kun, did you want to continue where we left off?”

Juza’s still glaring at the side of Banri’s head. When Banri turns to cock an eyebrow at him, Juza sets his jaw hard. Banri’s smirk morphs into a leer.

“Juza-kun.”

“… Sounds good.”

Juza tears his gaze away from Banri and moves back over to his seat with Omi. Izumi follows along, moving a stand out of her way. There’s a burst of laughter from Banri. Izumi pauses and considers the tears that sparkle at the corner of the kid’s eyes as he laughs.

“You chose _clarinet_?”

Banri gasps for breath between bellowing laughter. Juza’s hands clench into fists again. As Omi wordlessly attempts to distract Juza, Izumi frowns at her newest student.

“What’s wrong with him choosing clarinet? You’re playing flute. Neither is considered a very masculine instrument.”

Banri gasps for air. “Yeah, yeah, I can spin anything to my favor. But that ugly mug? Playing a _clarinet_? Oh my god, the world’s finally lost it.”

“I’ll give you an ugly mug,” Juza threatens.

Omi clears his throat. He shares a look with Izumi.

“We’re all in the same band,” Omi tries. “We all pick instrument we like. It’s as simple as that.”

Tsumugi nods quietly.

“Ugh, whatever.” Banri turns back to Tsumugi but not without a final glance to Juza. With his laughter having died down, he seems remarkably more bitter than he does triumphant. “When do I get my own flute?”

Tsumugi stammers through a response.

Izumi takes her seat on Juza’s other side and tries to redirect his attention back to the clarinet unsuccessfully. She’s tapping his shoulder, but his eyes are still locked onto Banri’s back. Izumi shares another exasperated glance with Omi. Omi shrugs. ‘ _Young love_ ,’ he mouths at her. She rolls her eyes. Whatever was going on between these two, it sure wasn’t that.

Settsu ends up trailing after him on the way home. It’s obvious as hell, but Juza refuses to say a word on the subject. He tries to take a roundabout way home in the hopes of losing the nuisance. Settsu just stays hot on his trail. Juza doesn’t want to bring him home, though. If his mom sees Settsu, she’ll invite him in for dinner, and, knowing Settsu, he’d accept just to piss Juza off more. So, he ends up taking them to the river.

The warmth of the day is dying. The breeze picks up, too, and Juza ends up pulling his sweatshirt out of his bag and throwing it on, stopping just long enough for Settsu to catch up. Settsu eyes him head to toe.

“Where the fuck are we going? Your house is back that way.”

“Ain’t goin’ home.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Juza keeps walking. Settsu picks up his pace and then slows so that he’s in step with Juza.

“Why not?”

“Don’t want you comin’ home with me.”

Settsu scoffs. “What? Afraid your mommy’s gonna invite me in for dinner?”

Juza really hates that Settsu knows him and his life so well. Or, at least, the parts that have stayed the same in the last three years. Then, Juza’s reminded of what he had packed in his bag specifically to give Settsu after school : what he’s been meaning to give to Settsu for a while now, except Settsu just can’t be nice long enough to warrant it. First it was picking all those fights, then it was the awkward silence between them after the river fight – of which they still haven’t properly spoken. Hell if Juza isn’t going to give it to him eventually, though.

He pauses by the fence and digs around in his bag for it.

“Holy shit, dude.” Settsu crowds him. “You got cigarettes?”

“What? No.”

“Oh,” Settsu backs up. “That sucks.”

“Shouldn’t smoke.”

“You’re not the boss of me.”

Juza shrugs. That’s definitely true, otherwise Settsu would fuck off when Juza tells him to. He continues to rummage through his bag, searching for that little glass jar. He finds it hidden at the very bottom and tucked to the side of his physics book.

Settsu goes a little still when Juza pulls it out for him to see.

“I told ya to not touch shit when you came in the first time, but looks like you can’t listen to anything I say.” Juza turns the thing around in his hands. “It’s whatever, though. Bought it for you, anyway. You should just take the whole thing.” He holds it out.

Settsu stares at it without moving. He’s got a dumb as shit expression on his face, too.

“The hell you mean they’re for me?” he asks. He’s still not taking it.

“Bought them when I saw you’d come back. Then you started acting like an asshole, so I wasn’t gonna give them to you. Then you stole some, and I was gonna give them to you again. Then the river fight.”

Settsu takes the jar out of Hyodo’s hand and considers it at length. Then, he twists off the lid and scoops out two of the disgusting, black licorice candies. He pops them in his mouth and shoves the rest of the jar in his bag. He makes a loud sucking noise. Juza scrunches his face up in disgust.

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Yeah. Now leave me alone.”

Settsu blinks, and Juza starts off towards his house.

“Oi!” Settsu calls. Juza doesn’t stop. There’s the sound of running feet, and then a weight slams into Juza’s shoulder. “I said _wait_ , asshole!”

“You didn’t say anythin’. You just grunted like a goddamn animal.”

“Oh, and you don’t sound like a studhorse with your heavy fucking breathing in bed?”

Juza shoves at Settsu and manages to catch the other off-balance. Settsu trips and lands hard on the pavement. He curses and glares up at Juza.

“Shut the hell up,” Juza snaps at him. “Don’t make that shit sound weird. I told you to take your shower and fucking leave. The hell’d you even come in my room in the first place for?”

Settsu gets back up to his feet and rubs his ass with a wince. “Dude, I was just curious. I had to wait for the laundry to finish anyways.”

Juza takes off, and, irritatingly, Settsu’s right back on his heels once more. They walk in silence for a bit. Juza’s given up on keeping Settsu away. He’ll just go home and get in the door before his mom can notice Settsu out in the street. But another issue digs at him, too.

“Why’d you join the band club?”

“Fuck, I ain’t tellin’,” Settsu scoffs. “What’s for dinner tonight?”

“None of your business.”

“Uh, I’d like to know what I’m eating?”

“You’re not eating shit.”

“Come on, dude. Your mom always gets worried if you get home this late. She’ll be watching the windows. And then she’ll see me, and then she’ll invite me in, and then I’ll end up having dinner with you. You know how this shit goes.”

“It’s been three years, Settsu. Don’t assume you’re still welcome in our house.”

Settsu doesn’t have a comeback right away, apparently. It takes him a second before he mutters, “Yeah, guess a lot of things change in three years, huh.”

Juza risks a glance at the guy, and Settsu’s sulking. It makes a weird pit of guilt form in his chest. It doesn’t belong there, first of all. It wasn’t _his_ fault that Settsu started acting like an ass. It wasn’t _his_ fault that Settsu had decided to go delinquent and get kicked out of middle school. It’s not _his_ fault that Settsu’s still creating enough trouble to not be welcome home. Or to not want to go home. Whichever it is.

“You don’t have to be so difficult,” he huffs. “Just say ya wanna have dinner with us, and you’d be welcome in. You don’t have to act... well, like an asshole.”

“Fuck off. That sounds gay.”

Juza turns away : ignores the way that last sentence kind of hurts personally. “Nothing wrong with that, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’m _not_ , though.”

Juza keeps his mouth shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> banri


	12. décalcomanie, fête

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> juban fights and reconciliation and fights, trumpet drama, sakyo and izumi discuss club positions, tasutsumu orchid-buying adventures, the start of "tsumugi nii-san," and game night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fair warning : juza and banri figure out their problems both pretty soon and not for a while (how else could it realistically be a teenage relationship fdjkgdk). happy extra gems in a3jp!
> 
> tw // homophobia (its mr. barni)

The record needle slips off the last track of the album side and fuzzily groans its static into the bedroom : droning over Banri’s ears, humming. Banri lowers his phone, admittedly not having tapped at the screen for the last ten minutes at least. He stares at the back of Hyodo’s chair. This room has been his entire world for so long now, never caring what laid beyond the door or windows. And yet, even as he lays on the bed now, he is more trespasser than anything else.

Hyodo clicks to the next song of his CD player with clumsy hands. It’s an old player : the one they had used to share earbuds over while listening to Hyodo’s mom’s albums. Banri eyes Hyodo’s hands – rough and still carrying the traces of bruises from their last fight – and feels some unnamable emotion well up in him. Hyodo’s hands used to be warm when they were kids : gentle. Banri’s not the only one who has changed.

It infuriates him less than it scares him.

At least the bastard’s still an idiot.

Hyodo’s pencil scratches against paper. He must not hear the record player’s static. Banri isn’t about to flip the record himself, though. So, he sighs.

“Oi.”

Hyodo clicks to the next piece. A small flare of anger blossoms in Banri’s chest, and he feels the familiar glare settle on his face. He grabs the jacket on the bed and chucks it at Hyodo’s back.

Hyodo rips the earbuds out of his ears. “The hell you can’t just tap my shoulder like a normal person for?” He turns around in his chair to glare at Banri.

“Record side’s done.”

Hyodo blinks, anger slipping off his face, and his gaze shifts over to the record player on his nightstand. “Ah.” He doesn’t follow this up, and Banri waves a hand sardonically to grab his attention. Hyodo’s glare returns with a vengeance. “Pick something else from the shelf and change it, then.”

“It’s your record player.”

“That you wanted to listen to. If you don’t wanna change the record, then get the hell outta my house. Your hair’s almost dry, isn’t it?”

It doesn’t feel good to get asked to leave. As if he’s disposable still to Hyodo’s life. Charity case to be dumped when it gets too annoying. He curls his lip.

“Fuck you.”

“Settsu, I mean it.”

“You think I’m joking when I say that?” Banri pulls himself off his stomach and kneels on the bed. “I’m serious, too, dipshit.”

Hyodo, predictably, stands up and lunges for him like he wants to grab Banri and throw him out of the house himself. Banri scoots up further on the bed out of reach.

“The hell’s your game?”

“Shut up. My hair isn’t dry. You can see that.” Hyodo sets his jaw angrily. Banri looks past him to the CD player. “Why’re ya spending so much time listening to that? It’s just a club performance, dude. Just pick whatever you like.”

“Shut up,” Hyodo snaps. “You don’t give a shit about band or music or any of it. You don’t get to pass judgment here.”

Banri raises an eyebrow. Apparently, this is a touchy subject.

“The hell’re ya even in band for?” Hyodo demands. “Is this just part of your stupid game? Don’t ruin things for the people who actually care.”

Banri scowls. Uglily. He’s heard these words before : from his parents, from Kosusaku teachers, from former club leaders. No passion. No care. Apparently, not giving a rat’s ass makes you a fucking waste of space.

“Let’s get something real clear between us,” Banri says lowly. He flicks his index finger between the two of them. “This? Us? Is all because I don’t give a fuck about _anything_. And I never have.”

“Don’t fucking lie to yourself. It’s pathetic.”

“I ain’t lying!” Banri roars. Hyodo furiously hushes him, but he isn’t going to just bend over and do what Hyodo wants. Fuck the rest of the household. “You’re just the last half-amusing thing I got left in this fucked up world. So that’s why I’m here. And when it ain’t amusing anymore, I’m fucking gone.”

Hyodo stares at him with a piercing gaze. Banri resists the urge to squirm underneath it.

“Ya don’t mean that.”

“Like hell I don’t.”

“No, Settsu. I know ya don’t mean that.”

Hyodo goes to reach for him, and that’s when Banri officially freaks out. He tries kicking Hyodo’s chin right off his face, but the damn idiot grabs his ankles and holds them tight. Banri struggles a bit, still aiming for Hyodo’s chin, but stops when he feels something pinch in his Achilles. He goes limp, and Hyodo’s grip loosens just enough for the sharp pain to vanish.

“Get the **fuck** off of me.”

Hyodo stares down at him. “You’re annoying as shit, you know that?”

“Really rubbing it in, aren’tcha?”

“Look, I,” Hyodo sighs. “I ain’t good with people. You know that.”

Banri does, indeed, know that. He waits for whatever Hyodo’s going to follow this up with.

“I know you want somethin’ from me-”

“Bullshit.”

“Settsu, just fucking listen for once.”

Banri tries to wrench his ankles free, but Hyodo’s grip just holds them all the firmer. The sharp pain returns, and Banri hisses with pain when Hyodo doesn’t loosen up this time.

“If ya don’t tell me what ya want from me, I can’t give it. And I ain’t gonna keep offering you shit like this if ya don’t give me a straight answer soon.”

Banri balls his fists into the comforter. “I want you to let me _go_ ,” he snaps.

Hyodo’s grip, impossibly, tightens. Then, he lets go of Banri ankles. Banri gets a good kick at the bastard’s cheek and snatches his foot back before Hyodo can grab it again. But instead of reaching to grab him again, Hyodo all but lunges for Banri.

For his part, Banri manages to not screech at a six foot tall hunk of muscle hurtling towards him without anything to soften the blow. He does, however, curse in pain when its Hyodo’s fist that comes down hardest : right on his nose. And as he’s cradling his nose, already starting to gush blood, trying to kick Hyodo off of him, Hyodo sits down on his knees and pins him there.

“Fuck!” Banri gasps.

“Shut up. If you wake my mom, you’re dead.”

“Fuck your mom, dude! You could’ve broken my nose!”

He goes to reach for a tissue, but, with Hyodo on his knees, he can’t reach the nightstand. He curses again. Then, Hyodo’s leaning over him. Banri stills immediately. He’s got no idea what the fuck Hyodo thinks he’s doing. He knows the guy’s gay, but, holy fuck, take a hint.

And then he realizes Hyodo’s leaning over him to snatch the tissue box.

Banri snatches it from him and shoves the fluffy tissue against his nose and leans his head back a little.

“Christ, you’re such a brute,” he mutters lowly.

“Ain’t a brute.”

“The hell you ain’t. Look at yourself.”

Hyodo deflates a little : looks a little smaller where he still sits on Banri’s knees.

“Don’t wanna be a brute,” he mumbles. “‘s just hard to stop.”

“Fists aren’t cigarettes, dude. You’re not addicted to fighting. You just too dumb to figure out any other way to argue with people.”

“If you’re gonna act like a cyclist, then tell me what the hell you want from me.”

Banri narrows his eyes.

“Cyclist?”

“One of those people who talk about issues with their patients.”

“A _psychologist_?”

“Whatever. Answer the damn question.”

Banri sighs and leans his head back into the comforter. He’s not sure if it’s a great idea to lay down with a bloody nose, but fuck it. His mouth is dry, and his chest doesn’t feel great, either. It’s tight, and, if he paid closer attention, he might recognize it as the same feeling he got whenever he cried back in the beginning months at Kosusaki : far away from where he wanted to be and utterly alone.

“Fine, I’ll fucking tell you. I wanna get killed.”

Hyodo hesitates. Clearly, Banri’s knocked him on his intellectual ass.

“Wh-”

“I’m so fucking tired, Hyodo. I ain’t going home, but I haven’t gotten depressed enough to jump in front of a train, yet, either. It’s like I’m in fucking limbo. I’m just here to pass the time, okay?”

Hyodo stares down at him.

“What?” Banri sneers. “Can’t even take what you asked for?”

Hyodo leans back a little, then moves over to the side and releases Banri’s knees. Banri curls up into a sitting position and rubs the joints sorely. He hopes nothing on him – other than his nose, of fucking course – will bruise too badly.

Hyodo’s still not responding, which isn’t the best of indicators.

“You good with that?” he demands.

“No.”

Banri’s not sure what emotional response he should have to that. He settles for evading the problem, just like always.

“Ah, well, you don’t get a say in it, anyway.” Hyodo goes to argue, and Banri shuts that down, too. “Don’t worry too much ‘bout it. Whenever you punch my damn face in, things feel alive and shit. Hot. Whatever.” Hyodo’s expression twists, but Banri can’t read what he’s thinking. “Point is, it ain’t happening soon or anything.”

He peels the tissue away from his nose and is satisfied that the bleeding has stopped. He chucks the tissue towards the trash can and flops back down on the bed. Unsuccessfully, he tries to repress a shiver. He hates how damn cold his body runs.

Hyodo gets up from the bed and begins rustling through the drawers under his closet. Banri assumes this is the end of the conversation and snatches his phone back up from the foot of the bed. He might as well get the grinding over with on Genshin before he gets too tired to have the patience for it. There’s no worse situation to be in than having full resin at 2am when he’s already struggling to keep his eyes open.

Except, after a minute, Hyodo starts to head back over to the bed with a blanket in hand. Banri spares a sidelong glance, but he quickly double-takes at which blanket it is.

Back in their childhood – back before all of whatever this mess is – Banri had been even colder on a daily basis, and the nights had been especially bad. Hyodo’s mom had gone out to buy an electric heating blanket when, one spring night even despite the warm and humid temperatures, Banri’s teeth had chattered throughout dinner.

It’s an ugly kind of thing. White with little pink triangles all over isn’t the best design, but it’s what Hyodo’s mom had ended up buying. And, sure enough, Hyodo had always been more than eager to bring it out whenever Banri’s body temperature seemed to dip. Maybe it had been an excuse to cuddle, since they had always ended up sharing it. Banri doesn’t like to think about that so much.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“You’re cold, right?” Hyodo kneels on the bed behind him and starts to unfold the blanket. “This’ll help.”

“Thought I wasn’t allowed to stay here for much longer.”

Hyodo wraps the blanket around his shoulders with more force than what is really necessary. Banri winces a little at the strain on his back.

“You’re staying the night.”

“Hah?”

Hyodo’s already gotten off the bed and fumbles with plugging the cord into the outlet. “I’m amusing to you, aren’t I? Ain’t that enough to stick around?”

“Look, dude, I didn’t tell you that bullshit for you to start acting like I’m made out of glass.”

“I’ll beat you up again if I need to,” Hyodo threatens. “I ain’t treating you like you’re made of glass. If I were, there wouldn’t be bloody tissues on my floor.”

Banri scoffs but quietly returns to his game.

Later that night, once Hyodo’s fallen asleep and the decibel of his snoring damn near blasts the walls of the bedroom to smithereens, Banri slips out the back door. He reasons with himself that it’s because he has better things to do : fights to pick and win. He wins a little cash off of some of the other delinquents staying out past curfew : enough, at least, to buy a little bit of food and get by until tomorrow night. He gets his food at the corner store down near the train station. Once he’s wrestled the bottle of tea and hot pocket from the vending machine slot, he turns around and heads for a bench. And then, passing by the train station’s entrance, he wonders what the hell Sakuya is doing here past midnight.

One of the joys of the change of season from spring to summer is the long summer day’s forgiveness towards students. The warmth of the day may distract from classes and the sweltering afternoons may leave school desks unpleasantly sticky, but no club member walks home in the dark during summer. It’s not summer yet, but it’s close. Already, the sun sets later and later.

It’s these small forgivances that reassure Tsuzuru even on his worst of days. And, by God, has it been a _day_.

It all started, he recounts to himself, with the pop quiz he hadn’t at all been anticipating in Japanese history, which was also by far not his best subject. So, needless to say, he probably only just managed to pull an A on that. And it was all thanks to that _inane_ bonus question – a complete rarity that Tsuzuru had never seen before – about the legendary Mifune Toshirou. The question had, exactly, been : “Which actor performed many of his most renowned roles in Kurosawa’s films, including _Rashomon_ , _Seven Samurai_ , and _Hidden Fortress_?”

And, well, howdy-hoo, but Tsuzuru damn well knew the answer to _that_ question, even if he had no idea who constructed the glass guillotine outside of the Diet building.

And then Miyoshi had decided to swing by to share lunch, which, of course, meant that lunch was about as hellish as it could possibly be. Tsuzuru has already heard too much about paint variants and hue variants – apparently, magenta isn’t real, so Tsuzuru doesn’t have high hopes for the rest of reality anymore – to put up with Miyoshi for very long. Today’s adventure had been a rabbit-hole escapade of a discussion all concerning whether or not Miyoshi-senpai should play with forbidden colors in his portfolio. What a forbidden color is, Tsuzuru doesn’t want to know.

And then in the band room, Masumi had started a verbal fight with him over their vote over auditions : accusing him of ‘wimping out’ once Tsukioka had said his piece. For the record, he did not ‘wimp out.’ He was reminded of the consequences of his vote and restructured his decision-making process, which happened to lead to a different choice.

Either way, though, Masumi is currently brooding with his sheet music by the windows of the biology classroom.

For someone only just finishing their second month on the instrument, Masumi has grown a lot on the trumpet. His range is the most noticeable improvement. Already, he’s working on his upper G’s through C’s, and they sound shaky but they’re still there. Tsuzuru would be proud if Masumi would just, for once, stop arguing with him over every little thing.

Because Tsuzuru can never instruct succinctly enough : never explain well enough – never _play_ well enough either, apparently. Of course, as soon as the Director comes around, suddenly she’s the role model that Tsuzuru could only dream of ever coming close to. Apparently.

Tsuzuru pulls his earbuds out of his ears and groans, trying just for a small bit to close his eyes. If he listens to _Merchant of Venice_ one more time, he may actually lose his mind. It’s probably the one he’s going to vote for. Maybe.

“Tsuzuru,” Citron’s voice comes softly from the chair beside him.

Tsuzuru hides the next groan. “Yeah?” he responds, but he doesn’t open his eyes.

“You are very quiet today. Do you want to go home rather than practice here?”

An unexpectedly keen appraisal from the resident trickster, indeed. Tsuzuru peeks through an eye at the boy sitting beside him. Sometimes, it’s impossible to remember that he’s a whole year older than Tsuzuru. Citron acts like he’s perpetually ten years old, after all.

“I am so stressed,” Tsuzuru whines, shutting his eye again. “I’ve listened to these pieces a million times. Maybe more.”

“Is there something wrong with them?”

“No, no,” Tsuzuru sighs. “They’re all great pieces, sure. Now, whether or not _this_ band club can play them,” he laughs mirthlessly. “I mean, have you _heard_ the trumpet solo? The flute solo? All of this is going to count on me and Tsukioka-senpai knowing our parts _perfectly_. And that’s assuming that Ikaruga and Miyoshi-senpai are going to be able to cover the percussion part. They’re going to have to cover four instruments each : at least! Do you know-”

“Tsuzuru,” Citron interrupts.

Tsuzuru opens his eyes and looks over to Citron. The boy has a funny smile on his face that’s very close to fondness for how soft it is, but the sparkle of humor is still there. Tsuzuru’s not completely free from the threat of more teasing.

“It would be better to relax and practice what we can, yes? You will be able to decide which song you want to play when we the time comes.”

What a cruel sort of voting day.

“What about you?” Tsuzuru asks. “Have you thought about it yet?”

“Hmm,” Citron hums secretively, smile playing out more and more jester-like as the seconds pass. “Perhaps I have, perhaps I have not. That is a secret!” Tsuzuru groans in psychological agony, and Citron chuckles. “I only joke. I think I will vote for _Merchant of Venice_. It is a very pretty song, I think.”

Tsuzuru hums slowly. Privately, he cannot imagine how it is that Citron and he actually agree on something for once. They share opinions on _music_ of all things, too. He’s almost expecting there to be a punchline to all of this.

“I am very glad that I will be able to play with everyone on the stage,” Citron says, then. “I am happy that you changed your decision.”

“My… oh, my vote?”

“Yes, that. I am happy that you changed your vote.”

“Well, I,” Tsuzuru isn’t sure he deserves the credit for that. “I just thought Tsukioka-senpai had a good point that I hadn’t thought of before.”

“Hmm,” Citron hums and leans in devilishly. “Not because you felt a little bad about it?”

Tsuzuru sighs. “Maybe a little.”

“Don’t you two have anything better to be doing?” Masumi snaps, effectively cutting off whatever Citron was about to say in response.

They share a hesitant glance between each other. Neither has quite figured out the trick to getting along with Masumi yet, but Citron seems to speak with him better than Tsuzuru, at least. Tsuzuru relinquishes responsibility to the guy.

“Oh, Masumi, do not be cold,” Citron begs. “It is not very handsome for you. We are all trumpets. We should practice together.”

“ _You_ can’t even hit a high E,” Masumi retorts coolly. He pages through his music, back turned. At his vantage, he doesn’t see the small downturn of Citron’s lips. “I’m not practicing with sub-par musicians.”

“Sub-par-” Tsuzuru starts to argue, but Citron rests a hand on his shoulder.

The hand is reassuring and calm in ways that are gradually becoming clearer to Tsuzuru every time he sees Citron speak with Chigasaki or respond to Masumi. He’s unnervingly mature at times and unnervingly immature at others. It’s a lot to really wrap one’s head around.

“It is not very nice to call people such things,” Citron chides. “You have practiced your instrument for the same length of time I have.” Silence from Masumi. “Sakuya is not very good with his instrument, either. Would you speak so coldly to him, too?”

“That’s different.”

“Perhaps it is because you feel for him in ways you do not for us.”

“I don’t _like_ him,” Masumi protests, turning around. Tsuzuru realizes that he’s flushing in embarrassment. “I just… I feel bad for him. I don’t care about him or anything. I’m in love with the Director. So I can’t like him.”

He sets his chin as if he’s won the argument with this tidbit of information. If anything, Tsuzuru just thinks it’s all the more compromising.

“However you feel about dear Sakuya, you would not speak to him like you speak to us. It is very cold, Masumi. It gives me the quivers.”

Tsuzuru screams silently. “Shivers,” he corrects. “It’s _shivers_.” ‘Quivers’ just sounds horrific.

Masumi, for his part, seems visibly conflicted. He stands there holding his trumpet in his right hand, biting his lip and frowning at the floor, flush still distinct on his cheeks.

“I don’t like Sakuya,” he repeats.

“You keep saying that. I never said in what way I thought you like him.”

Masumi’s flush burns darker. He looks a little uncomfortable so red, and Tsuzuru tries to take pity on him. Maybe this will win him brownie points, who knows.

“Okay, okay. Sakuya aside, Masumi’s partially right. We should be practicing now. Otherwise, the Director will get mad at us again.”

Citron shivers beside him at the reminder of the last time the Director had walked in on their sectional only to find them chasing each other with cleaning brushes, screaming at each other about politics. As much as Masumi likes to pretend he’s the calm one of the three of them, he had been halfway to shoving one of the brushes into Citron’s ear right when the Director had entered. None of them are free of the destructive label now floating around the trumpet section.

“Fine,” Masumi accepts.

He carries his stand over to them. Tsuzuru breathes a silent sigh of relief, and Citron presses into his side, relishing in their small victory of the day.

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Sakyo tells her neutrally. “We’re a new club. It makes sense that they’re hesitant to give us funding and other privileges.”

“Oh, I keep telling myself that,” she sighs. “I’m starting to get worried, though. I really want you guys to be able to take your instruments home for practice. Without that, the expo might be a bit beyond our reach.”

“What about club positions? It might help to have a treasurer if we want to address funding concerns.” Izumi hums in consideration. “At the very least, we’d have someone to manage permission slips and club dues. Which we _still_ haven’t paid,” Sakyo sighs.

“And I take it you’d be the treasurer, then?”

Izumi chuckles when he starts to protest. The tone of Guy’s trombone goes a little off as his smile presses against his mouthpiece.

“I’m just kidding,” she waves Sakyo’s defenses away. “I mean, theoretically it would be the third-years, right? So, that’s Tsumugi-kun, Tasuku-kun, Hisoka-kun, Homare-kun, Guy-kun, and yourself.”

Sakyo nods. “Yes, but I can’t imagine that Mikage will want to manage anything, so only one of us would have to decline the position.” He sighs. “And the rest of us are rather bull-headed.”

Guy lowers his trombone then : awkwardly shifts in his seat. “I would be fine with not having a club leader position,” he volunteers. “I’ve only just began participating in the club, after all.”

“Hm, yes, but Arisugawa has even less seniority club-wise than you,” Sakyo replies. “And I’m not sure I’d trust him with _leadership_ , of all things.”

“People may surprise you with their leadership skills,” Izumi chides. “I can always ask later after lessons one of these days. We might not even need it.”

“Club dues we do need.”

Izumi sighs. She wonders how many of her students are going to be able to pay it. She’s pretty sure that club dues are up to 4,000 yen now. Distantly, she ardently prays that she won’t have to drop 40,000 yen on a whim to cover her students. Not that she wouldn’t, she would just rather not lose that kind of money. After all, she’s only just begun to enjoy having dinners other than instant ramen on the regular.

“If we can keep this between us trombones-”

“You’re not a trombone.”

“-I’m just going to appoint Sakyo as treasurer. Mostly,” she stresses as Sakyo goes to interrupt her, “because I don’t want to embarrass anyone in the club by asking about their financial situation and home life. So, Sakyo, if you would, can you tell me how many people I’ll need to pay dues for by the end of next week?”

Sakyo and Guy blink dumbly at her. She regrets her words. Maybe they had come across too inconsiderate or commanding.

“What?” she asks nervously.

“You’re paying for us?”

“Well,” she worries that this seems too assumptive, “I just… I don’t think Banri-kun’s in a position to pay. Or, um, some of the others.”

“Settsu has a wealthy family,” Sakyo snorts. “Even got sent to a private school.”

Izumi did not know this, but this worries her in particular. Banri’s hair is too unwashed on certain days and his uniform too dirty to be anything but staying outside overnight. The kid has a lot of pride in his appearance, it seems, and she’s not willing to believe that he’d put up with the mud stains and grease if he had a choice.

“Even so,” she presses, “I’m willing to pay. Just tell me how many people. You don’t even need to tell me who.”

Sakyo exhales at length. “Alright,” he accepts. “I’ll talk to people. But only because I care about the club dues.”

“Of course.”

Tasuku and Tsumugi end up spending the half hour after band club that day talking with Sakyo, who explains to them the basics of what the Director hopes to do for her students. It’s not exactly how Tasuku had wanted to spend the time, but he sees the genuineness of the situation and knows how much Tsumugi cares about the same things. It’s the first thing out of Tsumugi’s mouth, actually : his concern for the new flute – Settsu – and his home life.

Apparently, the guy’s really upset with dirty clothes in a way that doesn’t exactly match his delinquent persona. At least, Tasuku didn’t think that delinquents cared very much about mud or dirt. Apparently, this guy does, though. _Apparently_ , he comes to club every day and takes off his uniform jacket – _apparently_ usually pretty dusty – and takes the time to tie his hair back before thoroughly washing his hands.

Tasuku can see why it would concern Tsumugi so. It’s in Tsumugi’s nature to be so considerate of others : gauging them, observing, and trying to offer help. Tasuku would blame it on being a gardener of orchids, but he knows that Tsumugi has been like this since before he had gotten into his grandmother’s gardening. Perhaps it’s what made gardening such a natural hobby to pick up for him.

Either way, Sakyo writes a note down in the back of his agenda and agrees to include Banri in the number of students who will need their club dues covered by the Director. Tasuku mentions that he’s heard from Nanao that Sakuya spends much of his time outside of school around town rather than at home, and Sakyo makes note of that, too.

And then they’re left to walk home together.

It’s the first time since Tsumugi asked Tasuku about Chigasaki that they’re going home together, and, while it’s the same thing they’ve been doing for a decade, the atmosphere between them is a little strained.

Tsumugi’s footsteps on the asphalt sound kind of quick and purposeful in a way that Tsumugi usually isn’t. And Tasuku admits that his own pace is more hurried than usual, too. The air is warm, though, and the sun is still in the sky. There have been worse walks.

“Oh, Tasuku,” Tsumugi pulls at his sleeve to get him to stop.

Tasuku looks back at Tsumugi. “What is it?” And then he follows Tsumugi’s line of sight north towards the train station.

“I forgot I keep meaning to pick up a new summer-blooming orchid,” Tsumugi says. “I was going to bring money with me today.” He sighs. “I’m getting really forgetful, aren’t I?”

“You’ve always been an airhead,” Tasuku teases, and it reassures him to see the humored huff Tsumugi gives him in response. “Did you wanna go back to your place and grab your purse?”

“It’s not a purse!”

“It is absolutely a purse. That’s why Arisugawa gave it to you in the first place.”

Tsumugi groans. “You’re never going to shut up about that. I was trying to be a good friend! I don’t mind girly clothes. It was better than him having to carry it all the way to a donation center.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tasuku takes Tsumugi by the arm and leads them down a different side street. “Come on, let’s get the purse.”

Tsumugi’s arm in his hold is stiff for the first few steps before it melts against Tasuku’s side, tension gone. The way to Tsumugi’s house is a familiar one. There’s the drugstore where they always used to panic-buy steam buns for dinner when Tsumugi’s parents were away at a concert or visiting their own parents. It wasn’t the healthiest of dinners, but a bit of fried bun with pork filling with gyoza sauce is special to them as a taste of togetherness. That and the _mujicha_ tea that Tsumugi’s father prefers and thus is always in the Tsukioka household tea drawer.

Tsumugi pulls him through the property gate and drags him in through the front door.

“I’m home!” he yells down the hall to the kitchen.

Already, Tasuku hears Tsumugi’s father working away in the kitchen. There’s a grunt of acknowledgement, and then Tsumugi’s already out of his shoes and running upstairs.

“I’ll be right back down,” he calls to Tasuku, and, then, he’s gone.

Tasuku huffs a warm sigh. He drops his bag on the step and toes off his own shoes. He knows all too well that Tsumugi will decide to change into day clothes while he’s home and then probably decide to brush his hair and then the snowball effect continues. Tasuku’s more interested in what Tsumugi’s father is prepping in the kitchen.

He rounds the corner of the narrow hallway and finds Tsumugi’s father rolling tamagoyaki – one of Tsumugi’s favorites – in the frying pan.

“Oh, hey kid,” Tsumugi’s father greets pleasantly. “I thought it was kinda weird Tsumu came home. Said he’d be at your place for dinner this morning.”

“Wanted to buy an orchid but forgot his purse,” Tasuku explains and glances around at the countertops. “You want any help?”

“Oh, no, I’m fine. Pull up a chair if you want, though. I can quick give you a few of these on a plate.”

“Ah, no thanks. I think Tsumugi’d get jealous if he knew I’d been eating his favorite food while he got ready.”

Tsumugi’s father laughs at that. “I wouldn’t put it past him!”

From upstairs, the sound of the bathroom faucet filters down to them through the pipes in the wall. Tsumugi’s father finishes rolling the tamagoyaki and transfers it to the plate before wiping the pan for the next. Tasuku moves over to the kitchen table and takes a seat there to watch.

He glances out the window to the small patio in the back : littered with Tsumugi’s pots and troughs. Most of the pots are only newly seeded since summer is almost to begin and the morning frosts have only recently vanished. There are some spring-blooming plants starting to drop their flowers. In the corner of the deck, a small green ceramic pot seems new : a small succulent peeks just over its rim.

“How’s the band club holding up?”

The sound of Tsumugi’s father’s voice jerks Tasuku back into the present of the kitchen. He turns back to the interior of the house and takes a moment to process the question.

“It’s… different.”

“Yeah, I’d bet. Tsumu says you have upwards of fifteen students in the club now.”

“It might be more than that,” Tasuku agrees. “There are two new flutes that Tsumugi’s helping to teach, and we have some instrument sections that we didn’t before.”

“Any new saxes?”

“Unfortunately not.” Tasuku tries to keep the bitterness out of his tone. He’s going to make damn sure Azuma joins like he said he’d ‘think about.’

“Ah, that’s a shame. But don’t worry about it too much. You may have another latecomer yet. Plus, there are always next year’s first years to take your spot after graduation.”

“That’s true.”

Tsumugi’s footsteps flutter down the staircase in the front of the house. He rushes down the hallway into the kitchen. His hair’s sticking up a little, and Tasuku keeps to himself a small chuckle.

“Oh, Dad!” Tsumugi exclaims when he notices his father at the stove. “Oooh, tamagoyaki. Can I have some for at Tasuku’s?”

“They’re for your lunches,” Tsumugi’s father guides the plate out of Tsumugi’s immediate reach. “No stealing.”

“No fair!”

Tsumugi pouts briefly before turning to Tasuku and raising his purse wordlessly. Tasuku gets up from the kitchen table and pushes in his chair. He says goodbye to Tsumugi’s father as he follows Tsumugi back to the shoe rack at the door. Then, in the privacy of the small entryway, he flicks at Homare’s old blouse that Tsumugi’s decided to put on.

“Girly,” he teases.

“I’m not girly,” Tsumugi huffs as he puts on a pair of Mary Janes. “I’m wearing feminine clothing. There’s a difference.”

“Okay,” Tasuku laughs and grabs his bag. “Let’s get going already.”

They walk their way back to the main drag they usually walk before Tsumugi takes proper lead and starts them off towards the vicinity of the train station. They’re getting a few looks – as usual – but it’s few enough that it’s background noise.

The small flower shop that Tsumugi takes him to is a new shop closer to Tokyo on the line than Tasuku really ever goes. The train ride, in total, is almost twenty minutes even. But the streets of the new town are pleasant enough, and Tasuku can see why Tsumugi was attracted to the neighborhood. The willows above them rustle with the light breeze and scatter light on the asphalt of the streets.

The flower shop, too, is down an alley : tucked behind a piercing shop and an artisan olive oil store. It’s an interesting combination, and the aesthetics don’t entirely match.

Tsumugi opens the door for them, and Tasuku enters. And then he flinches back.

“Woah,” he mutters low. “That’s a strong scent.”

“I know!” Tsumugi gushes, closing the door behind them and pressing up to Tasuku’s side. “They have this special type of jasmine that’s really fragrant! I really want one, but I don’t think Zabi would like it.”

“I’m not sure _I_ like it.”

“Hush,” Tsumugi pushes at his arm gently. “Come on, I think they keep their orchids in the back. I hear they have some really pretty hybrids usually in their selection.”

And sure enough, there’s an entire wall of the flowers in the back. The only reason Tasuku knows that all of them are orchids is because of all the times Tsumugi has sat him down and explained to him the fine details of caring for the flowers. He’s pretty sure he could repot a Phalaenopsis in his sleep at this point. And though Tsumugi’s favorite species is the Cattleya – though Tsumugi would vehemently defend to anyone that he loved all his orchids equally – Tasuku notices that Tsumugi’s really looking at only the dendrobium varieties.

Tsumugi pulls out a bicolor : a pretty sakura-colored pink with a deep red slipper.

“What kind of color pattern are you looking for?”

Tsumugi hums absently, peering at the leaves of the plant. “Whatever catches my eye, I suppose.” He places it back on the shelf and resumes his search. “I was kind of hoping to find one that… would really encapsulate how I feel about things right now. Something that I can raise and look back on several years into the future to reminisce.”

“That’s a tall order.”

“Oh, hush. I want something that really feels like it’s this year but in a flower. A healthy plant would also be nice, but these all look really good.”

Tasuku grunts and bends to look at the lower shelves. “What’s the most important to you about this year?”

“New beginnings,” Tsumugi answers faintly above him. “New relationships, new loves, new clubs, new friends.”

The sound of ‘new loves’ hits Tasuku harder than he was expecting it to. He supposes it’s a little stupid, he thinks, eyeing a white orchid, that he hadn’t yet realized that ‘my love’ in Tsumugi’s mouth no longer means him. He leans back on his heels and sighs.

“Yeah?”

“Itaru-kun’s kind of a pink person, don’t you think?” Tsumugi continues to muse, oblivious to Tasuku’s dilemma. “Although Banri-kun is very purple. And flutes would be white. Oh, I’m not sure.”

Tasuku pulls out a very, very pale pink variety on the second-to-bottom shelf and holds it up for Tsumugi. “What about this one?”

“Hm?” Tsumugi glances down, and it’s obvious to Tasuku that he’s just offered up the winner with the way Tsumugi’s eyes light up. “Oh, blushing varieties are really nice! I don’t have one yet, either.”

He picks it out of Tasuku’s palms and holds it to the light. In the meantime, Tasuku wanders down to the Phalaenopsis. Tsumugi once told him that he finds them the easiest variety, but Tasuku doesn’t know how much of that is a common agreement amongst growers or Tsumugi’s own history growing Phalaenopsis before any other variety.

In the back of his mind, though, too, he considers what exactly they’re doing here. Buying orchids to remember occasions isn’t necessarily unlike Tsumugi, but they were always occasions related to the two of them. After all, Tsumugi is the narcissus, and Tasuku is the orchid. They performed that piece in middle school for a reason. Using an orchid now to essentially celebrate the break-up – if Tasuku even wants to call it that – seems _uncharacteristic_ , at the very least, of Tsumugi’s usually empathetic outlook.

“I think I’m getting this one,” Tsumugi calls to him. “I really like it.”

“Not getting it just because I picked it out, are ya?”

“Taachan,” the warning tone’s there, but it’s still friendly enough. “Oh, I hope it doesn’t end up costing me too much.”

“You said you saved up.”

“I did, but I didn’t think I’d get something this nice, honestly. I only have 7,500 with me.”

“ _Only_?”

Tsumugi looks up at him, worried lip and all. “Yeah. I hope it’s not much more than that.”

Tasuku crosses over to him. “You’ve never bought a flower that was over 4,000. Are you sure you want to spend that much on a flower you’ve only seen for a few minutes?”

“I don’t know,” Tsumugi sighs and glances back at the orchid wall. “I really like this one, though. It’s almost perfect. See, look how clean the white is on the petals here,” he runs a finger along the center, “and then see how perfect the pink is along the edges. It fades beautifully, too. I might not find another like this for a while. Blushes are, well, they’re fickle. Everyone has their own definition of a blush.”

Tasuku exhales. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll cover what you can’t on it.”

“I don’t want to make you pay for it, though.”

“It’s fine. This year means a lot, right?” Tsumugi slowly nods. “Come on, we can copay on this.”

“If it’s over 10,000 I’ll put it back.”

It ends up costing Tsumugi every last cent in his purse plus another 700 yen out of Tasuku’s pockets. The price, Tasuku will admit, could have been much worse. In all honesty, he had been expecting something much closer to or even over 10,000 yen with how Tsumugi talked about it. Maybe it is worth that much, and the store isn’t charging enough. He doesn’t particularly care, he supposes.

They exit the shop with the almost-pathetically dainty flowers cradled in Tasuku’s arms and both of their schoolbags on Tsumugi’s shoulders. It’s getting close to dark now, though, between going back to Tsumugi’s place and the long train ride. Hopefully, they won’t be late for dinner.

“Ah, this was a fun night,” Tsumugi says happily, glancing at the orchid frequently. “We should go out shopping more often.”

“So I can pay for your flowers.”

“You paid 700 yen,” Tsumugi sniffs. “And I’ll be putting a lot of labor into coaxing them to bloom this winter. I don’t want to have to skip a year with them. Just based on the leaves I’ll probably only have one or two stalks.”

Tasuku laughs. “Are you going to put Chigasaki through this training camp, too?”

There’s a small pause. Tsumugi turns away slightly.

“Likely not,” he says quietly. “I don’t want him to think I’m too girly or anything.”

“Itaru-san is a wet tissue already, I don’t think you have to worry.” Tsumugi and Tasuku whirl around at the sound of Settsu’s voice so close to them. Settsu raises an eyebrow at their reaction before giving them a small finger gun. “‘Sup.”

“B- Banri-kun?”

“Yep,” Banri grins. “You and Itaru-san are going steady? Could’ve told me, y’know. We do share a section.”

“That’s,” Tsumugi flounder, face red. “That’s not-”

“Look,” Tasuku interrupts. “What do you want?”

Settsu scoffs. Tsumugi furiously admonishes Tasuku for his tone. Really, Tasuku’s not in the mood to deal with a brat. Entertaining Tsumugi about Chigasaki is one thing. But playing babysitter to the club’s resident walking temper tantrum isn’t on his list of things he wants to do tonight. The plan was to go home, talk music pieces, and have dinner together.

“Don’t really _want_ anything,” Settsu retorts. “Just curious where you two were headed, so I hopped the train and followed. Kinda weird, actually. I got my first piercing at the shop right next to your little flower place. Small world, huh?”

“It’s not polite to follow others,” Tsumugi manages.

“Ah, look, sorry. I thought you two were dating, and I was curious to see what your idea of dates was. Looks like I was wrong, anyway.” Settsu glances between the two of them, waiting for a response. Tasuku’s not really sure what to say in response to that.

“We’re,” Tsumugi tries, “we’re-”

“-old friends who went out to buy a flower and are going home for dinner,” Tasuku finishes. “Have a good night.”

“ _Taachan_ ,” Tsumugi hisses. “Don’t be rude.”

“I’m not being rude! Stalking people is rude!”

“I wasn’t _stalking-_ ” A glare from Tasuku gets Settsu’s mouth to shut. “Okay, I’m, uh, sorry. Yeah.” There’s a small beat. “Anyway, I guess I really just was waiting for you,” he gestures to Tasuku, “to leave so I could talk with Tsumugi-san. But if you’re going home together, I guess that’s a no-go.”

“Well, what did you want to talk about with me?”

Settsu suddenly can’t seem to meet their eyes very well. He works his jaw a little as he rocks back and forth on his heels.

“Well, uh,” he trails off, “I… kinda made Hyodo really mad on the way home. So, yeah. I,” he shrugs, “don’t have a way to get food tonight. So. I, uh, hoped Tsumugi-san would let me have something from his place. Doesn’t have to be much. Just a bit of bread and a water bottle would be fine.”

Tasuku can’t believe his ears. He turns to Tsumugi and finds the same look on Tsumugi’s face as the day his family adopted Zabi. Tasuku can’t really blame him, either. It’s a pretty hard thing to hear about a fellow student.

“Oh, Banri-kun,” Tsumugi says, and Settsu does a weird jerk of his head like the tone annoyed him. Tsumugi changes his approach. “You’re welcome to join us, if you’d like. You need much more than some water and a bread roll.”

“Nah, I don’t really-”

“I hear your stomach growling all through practice,” Tsumugi chides. “We’re having a hotpot for dinner, but I think you should have something a little heavier, too. We can stop on the way there and pick up some steam buns or gyoza, if you’d like.”

Settsu shifts his weight still. “Hotpot this close to summer?”

“It’s a feel-good meal,” Tsumugi defends.

They give Settsu a small bit of time to think it over, as he stands there clearly hesitant to take the offer. But then he nods a little and bows his head like this is something to apologize for. And Tasuku can see how it could be, but neither him nor Tsumugi really see it that way to begin with.

Which is how Settsu ends up at the Takato family’s dinner table, seated awkwardly at the table wearing some of Tasuku’s clothes while Tasuku’s mother runs the laundry for him and Tsumugi helps out in the kitchen with cooking the pork steam buns that Settsu had chosen. He sips slowly at the tea.

“Nice place,” Settsu compliments quietly. “You grow up here?”

“Yeah,” Tasuku replies : just as short and quiet.

And then Tsumugi joins them with the hot pan of the two steam buns and situates them on Settsu’s plate, already instructing Settsu to eat slowly and not get a stomachache from too much food at once, pouring some sauce for Settsu. He settles down in the chair beside them and watches, somewhat unnervingly, as Settsu stares at his plate.

“Is…” Settsu glances into the kitchen where Tasuku’s parents still prep the plate for the hotpot courses. “Is it really okay to eat before the meal’s ready?”

“Of course!” Tsumugi grabs his pair of chopsticks and tears a small bit of the steam bun off with them. He plops it right into his mouth. “I’m eating before it’s ready.”

A small smile works its way onto Settsu’s face. He starts to dig in on his plate.

The rest of the dinner passes shockingly well, in Tasuku’s opinion. Despite Settsu’s bad attitude in the club – and, generally, seemingly just around just Hyodo, Tasuku is realizing – he’s excellently smooth with his words around adults. Within a few minutes, he has Tasuku’s mom deep in conversation about clothing brands. It’s a little odd for Settsu “I Have a Gucci Wallet” Banri to be talking about the cost effectiveness of buying smaller brands, but Tasuku just works on cooking his mushrooms in the donabe.

After dinner, Settsu says his goodbyes and takes his leave despite all of Tsumugi’s protests that he stay the night and have a warm futon to sleep in. It does leave the two of them with some time to finally talk about their solo pieces, though.

They go over it for hours : debating on strengths and weaknesses, skills to showcase, trickiness of rhythms to impress. All the meanwhile the small pot of blush dendrobiums sits on Tasuku’s desk and listens in.

At the same time, Itaru spends his evening at Citron and Guy’s host family’s place just up the street from his own. It’s a game night for the three of them : unofficially, of course, since Saturdays are the true game nights. So, of course, they had pizza, though it was homemade due to Guy’s insistence that their diets improve.

They’re working on Genshin together, fighting their way through the Geo Hypostasis in order to help Itaru grind for Noelle. She may be a guaranteed pull, but she is his absolute queen of the team. She pulls the weight, breaks the rocks, decimates Geo enemies, takes the hits, and provides the shield. Plus, her maid outfit is pretty cute. If Itaru were straight, she’d be his type.

And there goes Guy’s Xiangling dying once again.

“You’re gonna run out of those fried eggs,” Itaru snarks.

“You must learn to avoid the attacks,” Citron agrees. Contrary to his encouragement, his Zhongli takes a few hits. “These fights are stamina fights! And Xiangling cannot break the columns.”

Guy sighs and runs his Sucrose character around in circles to avoid the oncoming projectiles. “My sincerest apologies.”

Noelle manages to destroy the last column, and the three of them go ham on the exposed crystal. And, there’s the clear banner along with the ley line blossom. Itaru spends one of his fragile resins to boost his original resin amount. Now he’ll need to clear another boss to make it really count.

He’s already navigating through his players’ menus to double-check who the next closest to ascension is behind Noelle when Guy speaks up.

“Chigasaki, have you decided on which piece you intend to vote for? For the band club, that is.”

Itaru clicks on Jean and then looks up. His last date with Tsumugi comes to mind : Kojikiden cranes, ice cream sundae, and a sweet kiss on Tsumugi’s porch step as a ‘goodnight.’ And, of course, their talk about the flute and about the club.

“Uh, I’m still working on it,” he evades.

“Oh,” Citron sets down his controller and gives Itaru a wicked look before heading off to the kitchen. “That means he has not listened to the songs.”

“Get me some chips while you’re in there!”

“Come and get them yourself.”

Itaru groans and moves his controller to the side to follow after Citron, absolute annoyance that he is sometimes. Guy follows after them, too, and they linger in the kitchen a little bit.

“It’s not that I haven’t listened to them,” Itaru protests. “I just don’t know which I care for yet.”

“Have you considered it from the perspective that you are suggesting to the club what you believe will help us all perform our best?”

“Hm,” Itaru hums. “A solid starting point, but my conscience isn’t pure enough to work that way.” Citron chuckles. “Tsumugi said to take my time with band in the general, anyways.”

“What did he say exactly?” Guy asks curiously.

“I told him that I don’t have a strong connection to the instrument or to the club yet and that most of my interest comes from being with Citron, you, and him. And he didn’t seem to have a problem with it at all. He just told me that it might take some time before I find the right connection between my interests and the band club.”

“I think I think the same as Tsumugi.”

“It's 'agree.'”

“I think I agree with Tsumugi,” Citron corrects himself. “I have gotten better on the trumpet because Tsuzuru is so much fun to irritate. I also simply like the sound of the trumpet, though.”

“I guess I like flute when I see Tsumugi with his,” Itaru admits, “but it still doesn’t feel like I really _like_ band.”

“What about video game original soundtracks?” Guy suggests. “You were saying earlier how much you enjoy the Mondstadt albums from Genshin and the soundtracks from KniRoun Volumes 4 and 7. You may be able to find sheet music of that online for flute.”

And it’s as if the winter has ceased and the frost has melted. It just _clicks_ with Itaru.

“Guy. I might have to kiss you.”

“Do _not_ kiss my cousin!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *banri voice* "tsumugi nii-san?"


	13. french horn, triangles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gamers unite, homare and misumi run late to club, the band picks their performance piece, and misumi goes triangle hunting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope everyone's doing well over the winter break! i'm excited for the new year's, and then my friend visits me in the desert for the first time in a while. it feels so good to do nothing but write and game for the last two weeks. this chapter's pretty misumi-heavy despite his arc not Starting starting yet. i just miss the misukazuomi arc so ;-; here's misumi and homare autistic solidarity

Itaru holds onto Guy’s suggestion and keeps it safe in his pocket for the remainder of the evening. Even as they scream at each other in the boss fights – demanding to know whose fault the last overload explosion was – the idea waits patiently for Itaru. When he’s back home after the short walk in the dark under the faint stars above, he takes it out of his pocket at his desk.

He finds out that Guy was right in assuming that there would be sheet music online for the soundtracks of popular games. There are whole websites dedicated to that specifically, it seems. Some seem to be professional booklets – the scores that the musicians themselves read off of – and some seem to be fanmade transcripts. KniRoun doesn’t have a book out for Volume 4, surprisingly, but they do have books for Volumes 10 and 11. Itaru skims through the sample pages, saving what he can.

Most of them are too difficult for his level yet. If one day he were as talented with the flute as Tsumugi is now, then perhaps he could play them. But as it stands, he passes them by. He finds that searching for recurring themes and fan favorite songs is the most successful. More of these tracks are marked as ‘Easy,’ too. There are other things he downloads, too : anime themes, movie soundtracks, some songs featured in games he’s liked.

His mom prints them off for him in the morning before school while he speed-runs breakfast. He dodges some of her nosier questions about the band club : answers the easier ones. And then he’s out the door with eleven different pieces shoved into his bag between his maths and physics books.

There’s a certain nervousness still in his chest at the idea of showing to Tsumugi what he’d like to play on the flute. A lot of the pieces are too indicative of his love for video games and anime, and he’s not sure just how open Tsumugi is with those topics. Sure, they had bonded over Kojikiden and a few anime titles over ice cream. But this is a little different : a little more niche. This is ‘Lancelot and Gawain.’ This is ‘Symphony of Boreal Wind.’ This is ‘ _Excalibur’s Theme_.’

The flute section often gathers in the farthest side of the wing from the band room. There are few classrooms with large windows that are nice to open for the acoustics. Sometimes, on the days with the best weather, they go down to the ground floor and walk out to the small group of benches in the back of the school grounds – by the fence – and practice there in the shade with the sounds of the birds and the scents of the flowers.

This is where he expects to find Tsumugi and Banri today, since the weather is warm without being too hot and the breeze is gentle but refreshing. He doesn’t bother to check in at the band room before he snatches his instrument and heads down to their benches. But upon exiting out the back doors, he sees that only Banri’s at the bench : no flute case and smears of purple on his face.

Itaru’s seen Banri beaten to hell and back before, but even this looks bad. He approaches carefully, trying to not stare, but also trying to not seem like he’s ignoring Banri.

“Hey,” Banri greets quietly.

“Hey,” Itaru answers. He sets his flute case down and hesitates a moment before deciding to address the issue. “What, uh, what happened?”

“Oh, this is nothing.”

“It looks worse than most of what you’ve had before.”

“Yeah, I mean,” Banri shrugs. “I’ve had worse before, though.”

“So, what happened?”

“Eh. It wasn’t anythin’ big or nothin.’ There was a group of guys waiting for me at the park last night. They were, like, really angry that I beat one of their friends up for money a few nights ago. So they returned the favor.”

Itaru hums low in his throat and moves a little closer to see the bruises. He should probably go see the nurse and get some things to help the sores heal.

“I told ya it’s nothing,” Banri bats his hands away. “Tsumugi-san’s already run off for the nurse. I don’t know why this is such a big deal for ya. I come here with bruises all the time.”

“Aren’t you worried about hairline fractures?”

“Not really.”

Itaru wants to say something about how this is more serious that Banri seems to be taking it : that these sorts of repeat injuries can cause stress fractures in the cheekbones and jaw and nose. That these things, when stacked upon months and months of the same physical abuse, can become permanent concerns. Tsumugi coming out of the building’s doors with the first-aid kit saves him from the talk, though.

Tsumugi’s mouth is set in a hard line that doesn’t dissipate as he approaches.

“This is why I didn’t want you to leave last night.” Everything in Tsumugi’s tone speaks to disapproval and disappointment. It’s two flavors on his tongue that Itaru’s never heard from Tsumugi before now. “I worry about you, you know. You’re going to get _really_ hurt one of these nights if you’re not careful.”

“It’s nothing big,” Banri repeats sorely.

He does let Tsumugi hold his jaw in place as Tsumugi sets to disinfecting some of the split skin there. Itaru plucks the cream container out of the kit and unscrews the lid. He works on covering the bruises on the opposite side of Banri’s face from where Tsumugi works.

“Come home with me tonight,” Tsumugi insists. “My parents won’t mind at all. You’ll be able to have a proper meal, and we have medicine to help with the bruises.”

“Nah, ’s fine.”

“It’s _not_ fine,” Tsumugi snaps. Banri flinches a little under their hands. “I’m worried about you. When’s the last time you went home?”

“Not exactly welcome back there.”

Tsumugi pauses. “They threw you out?”

“No, no. I, uh. Kind of ran away?” Banri sighs. “It’s a long story. Like. Really, really long. I don’t even know how I’d explain it to Hyodo, and he’s known me since we were kids.”

Itaru pulls away from the bruise on Banri’s right cheekbone and considers this.

“Well,” he says cautiously, “Ikaruga’s staying at Miyoshi’s place because of something very similar. If your parents aren’t interested in involving the authorities, then there shouldn’t be any problem with you staying at our places.”

Banri snorts. “They haven’t called anyone in two months. They’ve probably already written me out of the will, man. I’d be surprised if my room hasn’t gotten cleared out.” In the small pause Tsumugi takes to compose himself, Banri sighs a little. “Kinda a shame, though. I had some collector’s merch in there that’s worth a lot by now.”

“You collect?” Itaru asks.

“Yeah. Pokémon mostly, but I had the really old original Digimon, too.”

“Just _promise_ me that any night you don’t have a place to sleep you’ll come to my house,” Tsumugi interrupts. “Not just tonight : any night. Tasuku’s, too.”

“Yeah,” Banri mumbles, not at all sounding whole-hearted. “Promise.”

Tsumugi finishes up on the last bloody scrape of Banri’s chin and sets the disinfectant-soaked cotton swabs back down on the paper towel they’re using as a trash plate. He turns Banri’s face this way and that to inspect both his and Itaru’s jobs at patchwork.

“We’ll take better care of it tonight,” he relents and closes the first-aid kit with a plastic snap of the lock. “Does it hurt too bad? I know we have the vote later, but you can skip on sectionals if you’d like.”

“Nah, I told ya ‘s fine. I can still play. All I need’s my lips for that.”

“And your hands,” Tsumugi counters, then flies to pull Banri’s sleeves up his arms. “You didn’t get your hands hurt again, did you?”

With the fabric of Mankai High’s tan uniform pushed up Banri’s forearms, the plums of scabs on his knuckles comes into the daylight. Itaru hisses a little to himself in second-hand pain. It doesn’t look like Banri would be able to make a fist without cracking those open.

“My hands are always like that,” Banri pulls his hands away from Tsumugi's own, trembling in rage or frustration, Itaru's not sure. “Look, it’s all good. I’ll wash my hands before I touch the flute. I always do anyway, don’t I?”

“I’m not worried about the flute. I want you to take care of yourself better and come to us if you need help. We’re your section members.”

Banri chuckles at that a little. He rubs his hands lightly together. “Are all bands this insistent on comradery?”

“Well,” Tsumugi glances over at Itaru with hesitation written all over his face. “I don’t think so, no. But this one does.”

“Right,” Banri mutters. “I’ll wash up and grab my case. Don’t wait up.”

Banri flees from them without another word : disappearing through the doors to the building and – quite possibly – not to return for a while until he sorts himself out. Tsumugi sighs quietly and balls up the used cotton balls to set to the side.

They rinse their hands with sanitizer and wipe it off on their cloths before pulling their own cases to them. They assemble their flutes in silence with metal clinks filling the space in the air between them. Tsumugi blows air into his flute to warm it. Itaru matches him.

“I hope he’ll come back soon,” Tsumugi says quietly.

“He will.” Itaru’s more hoping than he is reassuring. “Banri’s the type of guy to not show weakness. I’m sure he’ll want to come back and act like nothing happened.”

Tsumugi pauses with his flute and purses his lips. “I wish he’d be more open with me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m an only child, so I don’t really know what having siblings is like.”

“It’s horrible.”

That prompts a small grin from Tsumugi. “I just feel like we get along well. I kind of wish he was my little brother sometimes. Is that patronizing, do you think?”

Itaru hums, thinking it over. In the meantime, he swipes his polishing cloth from his care packet and tries to clean off some of the fingerprint smudges from his flute. It’s been a few weeks since he’s cleaned his instrument, and it’s starting to look incredibly grimy. He rubs some of the dried sweat off of the keys’ indents.

“I don’t think it is,” he finally says. “I’m not as close with him as you are. You seem to have a good chemistry. You’re the one he latched onto when he first came into the band room, so that counts for something, too.”

“That’s true,” Tsumugi muses. He rolls his flute around in his lap. Clearly, he’s too lost in thought to remember to keep warming the metal.

Itaru feels like he should add something here. Tsumugi and Banri make a good match, after all. The two ace flutes : one ace for his time put into the instrument and one ace for his seemingly natural intuitions. They’re the first and second flutes. The two flutes close with a reed instrumentalist.

The doors of the building open again, and, shockingly, it’s Banri come back from the instrument room. He’s clearly washed up quickly, too : his coat’s off and his hands and face are a little cleaner of dirt but the medicine still smeared on.

“Alright,” he huffs, setting his case down on the table. “What are we doing today?”

“Ah, good question,” Tsumugi reaches for the practice book. “The director said she wanted to run through Theme from Symphony No. 7 as a group today, so we should definitely go over that. Why don’t we just start with warm-up scales and then run through… maybe page 34 together.”

“Oh,” Itaru exclaims. He had forgotten about his printed sheet music over the worry and fret for Banri. He reaches for his bag. “I actually had a few things I wanted to ask if we could look at.”

He pulls out the pages from his bag. A few have had the corners get a little torn up by the books and notebooks in his bag, but they’re still plenty fine to use. He hands them over to Tsumugi, albeit with a shaking hand. This is the point where Tsumugi can outright reject the idea of practicing music from video games.

Banri plucks one of the pieces out of Tsumugi’s hands to glance over while Tsumugi reads over the lines.

“Excalibur’s Theme?” Banri asks. “Isn’t that from KniRoun or some shit?”

“I happen to like KniRoun,” Itaru retorts.

Banri glances up over the pages and snorts. A cruel little smirk plays on his lips. “What are you? A weeb?”

“ _No bullying_ ,” Itaru snaps. “You’re the one with collector’s editions of Digimon.”

“Excuse you, Digimon fucked.”

“Digimon did not _fuck_.”

Tsumugi clears his throat a little, and both Banri and Itaru sit back in their seats. In the back of his mind, Itaru is a little impressed by how whipped Tsumugi has the both of them. Citron would definitely be impressed.

“We can play this,” he smiles at Itaru. “It’s a little… well, it’s not written for flute, clearly. But we can still play the notes and see if they’re similar enough to sound like the original.”

“Wait,” Itaru peers over Tsumugi’s shoulder. “I thought I had printed the flute versions.”

“Oh, you did! What I meant was that the original music didn’t have the flute playing these melodies. Since they’re translated across instruments, certain techniques and styles can become kind of awkward.” Tsumugi pulls ‘Liyue’ out of the stack. “See this piece? It was probably mostly a string piece originally.”

“Y- Yeah, it was.”

Tsumugi nods, seemingly confident in this affirmation. “You can tell because the notes are too long and sweeping to really fit on a flute’s capabilities. There’s some original flute parts in here, I think, at least, because they start to get more fluttery. But usually flutes don’t do sweeping music since we don’t have the bow length or string vibrations.”

Banri pushes ‘Excalibur’s Theme’ over to them. “You know a lot about your music, Tsumugi-san,” he remarks. “It’s kinda neat.”

“Ah.” Now Tsumugi’s embarrassed. The small creep of red on his ears and the hand on his neck gives it away so easily. “Well, I only know what I know.”

Banri accepts the rest of the pieces and pages through. He stops at one of the pieces and pulls it out a little further from the others.

“Oh, this is Genshin, isn’t it?”

“You play Genshin?”

The smirk returns with a vengeance. “I’m already Rank 51, so, yeah, I play Genshin Impact. What? You wanna give me support?”

Itaru snatches the music back. “Who do you have?”

“I have Jean.”

“So do I. Next.”

“Zhongli.”

“Citron has him. Next.”

“Uh,” now Banri’s losing his steam. “I pulled Albedo last night, but he’s not levelled or anything yet. I got like all the Skyward weapons, too, except the polearm.”

Itaru considers this information. True, he does hate grinding against the Geo Hypostasis for Noelle. Maybe having Albedo on the team would help for that fight, at the very least. Two Jeans could be advantageous, too : or a Jean and the Traveler with Guy and Citron’s fighters.

“You free this weekend?”

Banri cracks a grin. “Deal.”

This is honestly the first day that Homare can ever safely say he’s running _far_ too late to one of his clubs. The irony of the situation, of course, is that he’s running late for the one club that he had never anticipated participating in, least of all after being ousted gracelessly from his other clubs on account of an atrocious handling of his being outed. He also cannot fathom why his Classical teacher wished to speak with him about his grades. If he was receiving perfect scores on his exams, then he sees no reason for her to complain to him about the styles of his translations.

Translation is an art form, of course. There is no correct translation other than identifying what is a defensible interpretation.

He huffs and hurries through the doors to the outdoor walkway connecting the third year classrooms with the band and biology lab wing. It is far too long a walk from the staff room in the west building to the band room in the back of the east building.

And, pushing on outside, he finds himself nearly colliding with the one percussionist.

“Oh, my apologies!” he quickly helps to catch the boy when he trips over Homare’s outstretched foot. “I should have paid more attention to my surroundings.”

The boy offers him a small smile and takes a few steps towards the band room before waiting for Homare. Homare takes the hint and sets off with the percussionist. What a curious fellow, this boy, Homare thinks. He’s aware that others find himself to be quite vocal about his emotions, but the percussionist is almost always silent in the band. It’s a stark contrast to the other percussionist, who is about as loud as he is rarely in the band room to begin with.

Homare’s heard that the other percussionist is a fellow artist and that his paintings steal him away from their land of instruments. One day, he’ll ask about the other’s artwork. In the meantime, he’s curious to have this quiet percussionist open up to him a little.

“Are you running late, too?”

A small nod.

“Ah, I see. You are a second year, yes? What a lovely and calm year. No entrance exams with which to belabor yourself with. Though, there were plenty of concerns in my second year, too. I do hope the year is going alright for you thus far.”

Another small nod.

“Pray tell what had you held up?”

The boy bites his lip. “Teacher was mad,” he finally says softly enough that Homare almost doesn’t catch it. “Had to apologize.”

“Ah, what was the issue?”

“Lost my books. Lost my homework. Didn’t do any of the assignments.”

Homare thinks to himself that those are strange offenses. After all, it cannot be someone’s _fault_ for losing something : not that could be proven by a teacher, at least.

“I see. Well, if it is any consolation, I had to explain myself to my Classical teacher just now. Apparently, she finds my work to be so remarkably bombastic that she has difficulty in ascertaining its meaning at times. Can you imagine the audacity to say as such to a student? It is certainly not my fault that she cannot follow my poetic majesty. We _are_ translating Heian _waka_ , after all.”

The percussionist giggles a little then. “You’re kind of like me,” he says. “But the opposite. You’re like... the hypotenuse.”

“The hypotenuse?”

A fascinating comparison, Homare has to admit. He has heard plenty of ‘other sides of the same coin’ and ‘in the middle of the same spectrum but from the other direction.’ He has yet to be likened to a hypotenuse, nor heard anyone referred to as such. He will take the compliment.

“What would make you, then? I am afraid I’m not well-versed in my trigonometry or geometry terms.”

“I’m just Misumi,” the percussionist says.

“Please, you must call me Alice.”

The percussionist smiles dazzlingly. “I saw you had a triangle eraser. Can I have it?”

“I believe it’s a pyramid, but, all the same, cheers to you, my new friend.” He begins to dig out his pencil case as they continue to rush towards the band room.

The director doesn’t seem to pay mind to their tardiness, lost in discussion with the clarinets. As Homare settles into his chair in the brass row, unzipping his instrument case and starting to put together his music on the stand, he overhears bits of her words. The purple-haired first-year is apparently still struggling with squeaking his reed and using too much air when blowing through his instrument.

His Hisoka glances back to Homare and cocks his head in a small question, as if to ask the reason he is running so late to the club today. Homare waves his hand loosely. It is of no matter. And Hisoka turns back to his section.

By the time the director makes her way over to his chair, she looks frazzled.

“Hey, Homare-kun,” she greets and pulls one of the trumpet chairs a little closer to sit in. “How’s your day been?”

“Quite trivial, I must say. I look forward to our vote at the end of club today, though.”

“Ah, almost forgot,” she laughs. “Yeah, me too. I keep getting distracted by how close we are to finishing the beginner’s booklet as a band. Oh! That’s right, you came in late. I told everyone that we’d be going over Symphony No. 7 as a band before the vote. What did you want to run through as a warm-up?”

“Ah, before that, Director.”

She hums to show she’s listening as she flips through her French Horn book.

“I hope you take no offense from my asking, as I am genuinely curious, but what made you choose those three tracks to offer as options? I cannot help but think that they are more than your favorites.”

“Oh, they’re not my favorites,” she agrees. “But they’re still nice, I think. I wanted to pick three pieces that would challenge you in different ways as a band. That way, based on your decision, I could understand what the band wants in terms of their skillset.”

“I see. Could you explain further?”

“Sure! So, the first piece ‘Merchant of Venice’ is definitely the hardest piece out of the three. If the band votes for that piece, I know that all of you are sincerely interested in challenging yourselves to perform at your best with all the little details in consideration. I also know that you prefer a balanced band where you all get to play as one.

“The sax concerto’s very different, don’t you think? What do you think it would indicate to me if the band collectively voted for that piece?”

Homare wonders indeed to himself. Understanding indications and others’ subconscious desires has always been a challenge. What _would_ the difference between the two be? And how can he say it in a way that doesn’t offend the director or his fellow clubmates?

“I suppose it would indicate our willingness to be background noise to the person we see as truly skillful. After all, it is hard to deny that Tasuku is our strongest player.”

The director stares at him for a half-second like he’s said the wrong thing yet again before breaking eye contact and nodding.

“That’s a good start,” she enthuses.

Ah, so he has said the wrong thing.

“I don’t think that the band has a single player that is better at their instrument than any other player at their own, honestly,” she tries to explain. “I believe that Tsumugi-kun and Sakyo-kun are both very dedicating and skilled with their instrument. Taichi-kun, too, is talented. But, yes, it would indicate to me that the band is willing to identify a single musician behind which to stand rather than stand all together at the forefront. Little details would probably slide more in favor of concentrating on volume balance.

“And what of the third piece?” she presses.

“The third piece,” Homare echoes. “Well, it is a flamboyant piece. I personally do not like it very much. It tries to do too much, I think. Every instrument has a solo.”

“That’s true,” the director agrees. “What do you think it might indicate to me about the band?”

‘The band members are all too interested in carving out for themselves a place of being special through owning a solo,’ is his honest answer. Politically, he responds, “That everyone wishes to be heard on the stage.”

“Exactly!”

The answer – the political answer – seems to be the correct answer. Homare finds himself once again sweeping under the rug an ugly disdain for how much thought he must put into simply speaking when it is intended to be the most expedient means of communication. He would prefer his pen and paper any day.

“I see,” he says at last. “I look forward to the vote all the more now.”

The vote doesn’t go the way that Homare had been expecting it to. When the director calls for the final vote and starts with ‘Merchant of Venice,’ Homare is astounded to see only the three trumpets raise their hands alongside him. The saxophone concerto garners the hand of Tasuku, as well as the euphonist, the artist percussionist, and the lead clarinet. And, perhaps most shockingly, ‘Journey of Blooming’ gathers all the flutes’ hands, all the other clarinets’, both the trombones’, and the triangle percussionist.

The vote is called. They will perform ‘Journey of Blooming.’

Homare wonders if he’s losing his touch in understanding others even more than he had previously assumed.

It’s been a while since Misumi last went out triangle-hunting among the streets. For the last few weeks, Kazu’s parents have encouraged him to stay in the house outside of school for fear that neighbors would whisper and word would get back to his own parents. But the weeks have passed, and Kazu’s dad said it would be alright for a few hours before bed.

So, naturally, he goes to the place with the best triangles : the streets along the train station with all of this side of Veludo’s shops and stores.

He buys himself a few blocks of cheese from the artisans’ shops : cheeses that Kazu’s dad can put into their fondue pot for a pre-dinner snack. He would buy one of the wine bottles with a nice, triangle-roofed barn on the label, but alas. He does consider, for a moment, stealing the label right off the glass. But he doesn’t because he’s tried that before, and he hates getting in trouble.

He hopes, though, that Kazu’s dad will like the cheeses he picked out : anything to try and make it up to the man for lending Misumi the pocket money in the first place. Because, really, Misumi doesn’t really understand why the Miyoshis seem so willing to keep him in their home.

He finds a bench to sit down on and pulls out the box of cone-shaped chocolates to eat while he thinks about it.

Having someone in the house requires a lot of money, Misumi knows. He’s wasted a lot of his parents’. There’re the school dues, the club dues, the extra food in the fridge and pantry, the train fare, the pocket money, the clothing, the water, the electricity, the wifi, and there are plenty of other things as well.

Kazu’s an only child, though, so maybe his parents don’t realize how much of a burden they’re taking on by letting him stay. By next month, though, when the bills come in the mail, maybe they’ll reconsider their decision.

He tries really hard to leave as small of a footprint as he can, though. He never bathes unless Kazu or his dad is already planning to, and his showers are otherwise only a few minutes. All he needs is just enough to wash his hair and run a soap bar over his skin a few times. He shadows the others in the house, sticking to their pools of lights rather than turning on the lights in a room all to himself. He hasn’t even used the wifi once since he arrived.

The grocery costs are harder to avoid. Kazu’s dad is always so insistent on giving Misumi more than Misumi needs. Just last week, when they had a light but tasty pumpkin soup, Kazu’s dad had scooped him three whole bowls of rice and two bowls of the soup before easing off and letting Misumi leave the table without dessert. And this morning, when Kazu’s mom had cooked for a change, she had given Misumi not only the toast but the eggs and the sausages, as well.

Now, even these chocolates are another cost. Only a three-hundred yen cost, but they add up, Misumi’s been told. Little things are the most dangerous. So he can disguise the triangle cheeses as a gift for Kazu’s dad, and maybe he’ll find something for Kazu, too.

But as soon as Misumi even really lingers on Kazu, his mood dips a little. He knows that Kazu’s working hard on his portfolio. He knows that, more than anything, Kazu wants to go to a school with artists he respects as his teachers and that, for Kazu, that means Tama above all other options.

According to Kazu, Tama’s hard to get into, especially when looking for a scholarship. Tama doesn’t accept many undergraduates : mostly Master’s level graduates. And, for Kazu, that means that his portfolio has to be spotless and his introduction video more than simply charming.

Misumi wants to be able to support Kazu. He really, really wants to. But it gets hard when Kazu gets so cranky and when – even in his good moods – completely ignores everything and everyone around him in favor of the piece he’s working on at the time. Tonight’s a good example. Misumi tried to ask for help on his literature homework at the wrong time, and, well, Kazu’s response hadn’t been _mean_ exactly, but it had torn Misumi up inside.

“Sumi, babe, can you down into the kitchen just for a few hours?”

Kazu hadn’t even seemed to notice when Misumi did leave, or he just didn’t care enough to say good-bye back to him.

Misumi folds the cardboard top back into its slot and sighs. He really hates art. He hates it more than even music maybe. Kazu’s parents say that the fine arts are fun. Kazu’s dad loves his cooking and his printing job, and Kazu’s mom seems to adore her work in the restoration department for Veludo’s Theatre Museum. Misumi can’t say he’s had a good experience yet.

Well, maybe the band club counts, but Misumi’s not sold yet. He likes the Director. He likes talking with Guy when he and Furuichi stay in the band room to practice. Their seats are right by the snares, so Misumi can talk to them even while practicing. And Arisugawa seemed nice in the hallways : comfortable enough to talk to, at least. But it’s still _music_ , and Kazu doesn’t even come around much to relieve some of those memories from Misumi’s shoulders.

Misumi realizes he’s hit a negative thought spiral. Omi said he should try to break his thought cycle up by doing something easy to hyperfixate on whenever it gets bad like this. So Misumi pushes himself off the bench and sets back off down the street. He’ll find a few more triangles, and, if that doesn’t settle things, then he’ll try to ask Kazu’s dad about his literature homework. Work, if not play, can be distracting enough.

He decides on trying for triangles in the sweets store. It’s an easy place to start since cupcake frosting and cake slices and the strawberries on strawberry shortcakes already are three on the list of perfect triangles. He pushes through the door, and the little bell rings, and, as the girl running the counter calls out a welcome, Misumi makes eye contact with the third-year flute across the room.

“Oh, Ikaruga-kun,” the boy greets.

The boy next to him straightens up, and Misumi realizes it’s the first-year flute.

“Are you buying sweets, too?” the third-year asks when Misumi doesn’t reply.

Misumi shakes his head. He’s just looking. He should go.

“You can join us! Banri-kun’s trying to pick something nice out for Juza-kun.”

“ _Don’t tell him that!_ ” Banri hisses, tugging at the third-year’s sleeve. “I’m not, anyway. This was your idea.”

“I suggested the apology gift and you mentioned Juza-kun’s affection for sweets,” the third-year reasons. “This is half and half, then.”

Misumi edges towards the door.

“Oh,” the third-year’s eyes are back on him again, and Misumi goes still. He kind of feels like an insect with the light being shone on him. If he moves, then the two will definitely know that _he_ knows that they know. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to! I don’t want to force us on you.”

It’s not forcing really, but Misumi also isn’t feeling socializing right now, either. He stands still and tries to figure out how to answer without looking particularly slow. He hates seeming that way to others.

“You okay?” Banri asks. He’s already sizing him up, Misumi realizes. “You’re kinda actin’ like Hyodo once he’s caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Happened twice, by the way. Not making that one up.”

The third-year smiles at that and turns to Banri with a small giggle, pulling lightly on Banri’s hair. Misumi’s not sure what the action means, but Banri gets a little fidgety like he’s embarrassed afterwards. Maybe it’s teasing.

And Misumi’s still standing here. Leaving would seem weird by now, so he slowly inches over to the two.

“Kazu’s painting,” he whispers, “so I’m waiting.”

“Oh, Miyoshi-kun? Is he the type of person to get in the zone when he’s working?” Misumi nods a little. “Tasuku’s like that, too. Once he starts practicing, you just can’t even hope to interrupt him.”

“Itaru-san when he’s gaming,” Banri snorts.

The third-year turns to Banri with a little head tilt of surprise. “Itaru games a lot?”

“Uh, did he, like, not tell you or something? It’s all he ever does.”

“Really,” The third-year says a little to himself. “I… That… makes a little sense, I think, actually. The music earlier today and our date a few days ago.”

“Gay,” Banri snickers.

The third-year pulls his ear lightly. “It’s not polite to tease like that in public.” Then, he moves Banri’s hair back. “You don’t have any piercings on this ear?”

“Nah. Looks cooler on just one ear.”

Misumi remembers suddenly something Kazu told him a few years ago back when everyone in middle school was suddenly obsessed with dating.

“Is it the gay ear?”

Banri makes an audible noise in his throat and stares in horror at Misumi like he’s said something horrifically wrong. Has he? Misumi immediately looks to the other flute. He thought saying that was normal. He was just contributing to the conversation.

But the third-year’s biting his lip and trembling all over, hand clutching onto Banri’s sleeve in a tight grip that’s sure to leave wrinkles. He only manages to keep it in for a few seconds before he bursts out laughing : loud and brash in a way Misumi didn’t even think was possible from him. The girl running the counter gives them a dirty look as the third-year continues to cackle insanely, now shaking Banri’s arm a little.

“Even people you don’t know see it,” he laughs. “Banri-kun, are you _sure_?”

“Wh- I,” Banri stammers, “I don’t like Hyodo. I said that. I don’t like him. I feel bad he’s such a fucking dumbass. It’s embarrassing. This is a pity gift. I’m not _gay_. No offense, Tsumugi-san, but I like,” a very slight hesitation, “tits.”

Tsumugi’s lips still tremble with barely-contained laughter. “Right, of course.”

Somehow, this acceptance seems to make Banri only more flustered, vehemently arguing that he’s not gay. Misumi feels like he should leave. This kind of feels homophobic on some level even if he’s not sure how.

“I _said_ I believed you,” Tsumugi repeats. “Don’t cause a scene.”

“I’m not causing a scene! This guy just fucking _said I have the gay ear pierced_! You’d be upset if someone called you straight!”

“That would be enforcing a hegemonic expectation on me,” Tsumugi counters, “which would be quite discriminatory in a passive sense.”

“But-”

Tsumugi turns back to Misumi. “You said you were shopping?” Banri falls silent and pouts.

“I,” Misumi glances between them. “Just window-shopping.”

“Maybe you could help,” Tsumugi offers. “Juza-kun apparently has quite the sweet-tooth, and we’re looking for something that would make a nice gift for when Banri apologizes.”

“Apologizes for what?”

Tsumugi turns to Banri expectantly. Banri sighs.

“Called him a slur.”

Misumi feels his mood plummet even further.

“And?”

“And I accused him of helping me out only because he wants to get in my pants. Which he _does_ , for the record, I can see this shit.” Banri glances over to Tsumugi’s small frown. “But I, uh, am still sorry for saying it the way I did. I was… rude.” Banri seems to be having trouble saying his words. “And… I was… wrong. I was wrong. And I’m sorry. And I’m getting a gift that shows I understand what he likes and that I care… in order to show that I am sorry.” He sighs. “And I’ll try to change my behavior.”

“Perfect,” Tsumugi enthuses. “If you mean it, the conversation will go well, I promise. Juza-kun seems like a very fair person.”

Misumi still doesn’t understand why a slice of cake or box of chocolates will suddenly make someone forgive a slur and derogatory accusations. He must be missing something.

“Get him something with triangles,” he tries suggesting.

Banri squints at him.

“Could you elaborate?” Tsumugi asks.

“Triangles are fun. They bring happiness. Try to give him happiness. Give him triangles.”

“The fuck-”

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Tsumugi cuts in. “See?” he asks Banri. “Connect what you like and what he likes in order to make the gift meaningful.”

Misumi relaxes a little bit. Tsumugi understands, so Tsumugi can be trusted.

“Man, his tastes are so out of the realm of possibility. There’s nothing that overlaps.”

“Think about it. What would make Juza-kun happiest to receive from _you_?”

Banri stares at the selection of chocolates, candies, and cakes. In the meantime, Tsumugi lingers back with Misumi. What they’re waiting for, an epiphany or something, Misumi realizes it might take a little bit to come to. But it’s alright, he thinks. Kazu probably isn’t done his painting yet, and his homework doesn’t need to get done now that he won’t get yelled at for bad marks.

Banri huffs a little and turns back to them. “Okay, but you’re not gonna like the price.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, writing autistic characters, absolutely projecting : "so theyre bad with names and constantly worry if theyre thinking the Correct Thoughts TM or not"


	14. room (arts club pt. 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> club positions are picked, taichi has a crush on sakuya, and kazuomi spend an afternoon together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i lived, bitch jkjk i hope everyone's doing alright!! and happy new year, of course. ive had half of this chapter written since... dec 28? but writing kazuomi takes a lot of concentration, so i wasn't able to finish it up until today. sorry about the wait!!
> 
> no tw for this chapter but theres some mildly erotic stuff between kazuomi in the second half that challenges the t rating

It’s on the first Friday of June that Izumi manages to scrape together the last of the money for the club dues she’s covering. Sakyo had told her that only four of the students would need the small favor, and so she’s gathered up the 16,000 yen out of her bank account. Her cat will miss the fancy cat food this month just as much as she’ll miss the curry place near her house and the taste of their one-person curry nabe.

Sure enough, Friday is the first day of the rationing, and her cat gives her a particularly dirty look when she smells the thirty yen cat food in her bowl being microwaved.

“It’s for the kids’ sakes,” she tries to tell Kimchi. Kimchi glares at her unforgivingly.

And so, Izumi treats herself to a homemade frapp with milk and some of the leftover ice cream in her fridge and a bit of her morning coffee brew. This will be her pick-up for the day : a small Friday celebration before the blissful weekend.

She ends up not needing it nearly as much as she had been expecting. She’s saved from her meeting with the principal and vice-principal by the World History teacher – who apparently is also the theatre club’s supervisor – bursting in through the door. Manila folders stacked in his arms and babbling about being late for his appointment, the principals firmly remind him that his appointment is tomorrow. But based on the small wink he throws her way as he leaves, she has a sneaking suspicion that Matsukawa had pulled an ally move in getting them off her back.

It works, too. In their irritation, still muttering to each other about Matsukawa and the ‘wreck’ of the theatre club, they pass Izumi for funding on the condition that the band club creates its own positions and proves themselves as capable of self-management as the sports clubs, who, she is reminded, are the prime examples of what a ‘good’ club looks like. She thanks them through her teeth.

“Ah, did it work out?” A voice immediately asks as she leaves the meeting room.

She jumps a mile noticing Matsukawa around the corner. It’s a miracle that the staff room is mostly empty for once. Nouma-sensei had decided to treat everyone out for lunch period today, but Izumi had already packed her bentou. And Matsukawa never seems to go for work outings, which begs the question of how he hasn’t been let go yet.

“Uh, yeah, it did. Thanks for interrupting them, by the way.”

“Ahh, they’re really brutal with us,” Matsukawa sighs and scratches the nape of his neck. “This school isn’t the arts powerhouse it once was. Godza High’s really beating us into the ground at all the competitions lately.”

“Oh, I didn’t know- Well- I thought we were about the same age, actually. I’m surprised you know about Mankai High’s arts history.”

He gives her a funny little look and then laughs. “Oh, you don’t remember me, do you?”

She can’t think of a single reason why she would have met this man before. Then, she has the horrific realization that this might be flirting. She hopes to God it isn’t.

“I’m sorry?”

“You were a first-year when I was a third-year, I think. I played the Fool in our production that year. You played Regan?”

Izumi thinks about it. She honestly can’t remember very well who any of the other actors were besides her friends.

“Oh, I wore contacts back then, though.”

Matsukawa takes off his glasses, and that’s when it hits Izumi.

“Oh my God,” her jaw drops. “I know you! I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize. Oh, I feel silly now. We’ve passed each other in the hallways how many times now, and I didn’t even look twice.”

He laughs and puts his glasses back on. “I totally understand! I think I only remembered you because you came back as the band director. Weren’t you in the marching band?”

“I was!” She’s flattered he remembers. “I was in the trumpet section.”

“I was kinda surprised when another alumni came back to teach. I only came back because I heard that they were planning on cutting the theatre club, and I just couldn’t let that happen. Is that why you came to teach music?”

“Oh, no, I didn’t actually know anything about the arts programs cuts until I got back. When I saw the job listing, I just.” She laughs a little. “It was just an impulse thing. Suddenly I had the phone in my hands and was talking with one of the secretaries.”

He nods as if this makes sense, and it probably does.

One of the doors to the staff room slides open, and a student pops their head in : a second-year girl with pretty pink hair.

“Matsukawa-sensei,” she asks, “Are you busy right now?”

“Sakisaka-kun! Of course not, what’s the problem?”

“Rurikawa-san wanted me to ask if you’d have lunch with the theatre students in the backstage room today.”

Matsukawa turns to Izumi with a small huff and apologetic shrug. “Slave to the students, aren’t we? I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I can walk you part of the way there.”

This is how she learns that not only is Matsukawa more of a theatre head that she had even originally thought but that he and her are apparently birds of a feather in their understanding of how attraction works. She asks after his old girlfriend in high school and, with a nervous grin, he explains that he’s not a girls’ man. They pass Iwai-sensei on the way to the auditorium, and Matsukawa and him share a small (seemingly one-sided?) greeting. Izumi thinks she gets it.

Sakisaka is a pleasant enough student to talk with, too. She asks after the band club with inquisitive little questions that tell Izumi that plenty of rumors are spreading amongst the students about the ‘type’ of club she runs. There aren’t many other reasons for a student to ask about how ‘welcoming’ a club is.

They part ways at the exit to the courtyard, and Izumi sets off through the throngs of students enjoying the start of their lunch period towards her own building.

Cliques haven’t changed much at all since she was here. The popular girls still sit by the vending machines and still seem to like the fruit-flavored milk cartons that one can purchase there. They sit with their fancy bentou, and, across the courtyard by the benches under the trees, another seemingly-popular clique has claimed the best shaded spot for themselves. She spots Tsumugi, Tasuku, Homare, Hisoka, and another student she doesn’t recognize sitting together on the other side of the tree, and she offers them a friendly wave.

“Director!” a voice calls, and Tsuzuru comes running up to her, lunchbox in hand. “Can I eat with you in the band room? Miyoshi-san’s trying to hunt me down.”

Izumi looks over his shoulder, but Kazunari is nowhere in sight. Still, she accepts.

“Are you and Miyoshi-san close?” she asks politely and holds the door to the second building open for him.

They head for the staircase at the very end of the ground floor.

“Ah, sort of?” It sounds more like a question than an answer. “We went to the same middle school, so we know each other a little better than we know others.”

“It’s nice to keep schools with friends.”

“Ah, yeah, friends.”

She raises an eyebrow. Curious, she pesters, “Not friends?”

“Miyoshi-san is very loud.”

She laughs. So it’s that kind of friendship. “Is he still in his artist’s block? I’ve heard from Omi-kun that Kazunari-kun can be a handful when he’s searching for inspiration.”

“Fushimi-san’s not wrong,” he grumbles. “I like to think I’m open-minded about a lot of things, but there are some physics about light that I never wanted to know. I’m not going to be able to look at things the same way if he keeps trying to teach me color theory.”

“Ooh, I love color theory. Did you know that our eyes can’t process magenta?”

“I learned that yesterday, unfortunately.”

“Oops,” she says. Hiding a smile, she adds, “Maybe I should keep my secrets.”

He smiles in return. “I’m surprised you’re not in the band room today with Furuichi-san and Sakuya. Don’t the three of you eat together every day?”

“Not _every_ day. Sakyo-kun said yesterday that he’d be absent for the first half of the school day for a doctor’s appointment, so he missed his music class and lunch. Sometimes he eats with Guy-kun, I hear. Not sure about Sakuya-kun, but I know he likes to eat with Masumi-kun and Banri-kun whenever he’s not with us.”

Tsuzuru sighs. “Maybe I should ask Sakuya for tips on handling Masumi, then.”

“Still bickering during sectionals?”

“You can’t imagine.”

Izumi thinks she _can_ imagine. She’s walked into quite a few all-out wars whilst trying to check in on their section. There had been the soap fight, the cleaning brush fight, the music stand fight, the valve fight, and a gummy bear fight, too, if she remembers correctly. The worst had definitely been the music stand fight.

“Have you tried talking with him in private?” Izumi suggests.

“He doesn’t seem to want to talk to me at all in practice or otherwise.”

That’s certainly troubling. Izumi hums to herself. Perhaps she should step in and have a conversation with Masumi about how he’s fitting into the band and his section. She doesn’t want the first-year to think she’s disciplining him either, though.

“Well,” she decides. “I can always talk with him if things don’t get better. It wouldn’t be anything bad. He’s not in trouble! But maybe for your section’s sake it’d help if he opened up to me a little about his goals here.”

“That would help a lot, if you did.”

“Maybe in a few days, then. I’ve got some big news for today’s group session.”

“Big news?” Tsuzuru questions.

“You’ll see after school!”

Izumi leaves a note on the instrument storage room’s door for her students to grab their instruments and join her in the main room rather than starting off in their sectionals. She doesn’t often like to force everyone together too soon after the end of the school day, usually. In her experience, students are always too pent up and bored from sitting in their classes to really benefit from more sitting in a large group while a single person speaks. As such, she’s encouraged them to go immediately into their sectionals most days.

It’s been a better system than she had even anticipated, she’s happy to say. Percussion, of course, is tied to their instruments in the band room, so Misumi’s a constant companion. The trombones often stick around in the band room with her, too, as do the clarinets depending on whether or not Omi makes it to band club rather than art club or home to cook dinner for his siblings. If Omi makes it, they usually stick around. Otherwise, Sakuya usually manages to talk Hisoka and Juza into practicing on the roof.

How the clarinets don’t sweat the resin straight off their clarinets in the near-summer heat, Izumi doesn’t know.

But the flutes and trumpets are always out somewhere, and Tasuku often wanders out with Taichi trotting after him like a puppy. Izumi’s pretty sure that when Homare does vanish, he’s with them. Unless Homare’s cooped up somewhere Izumi’s yet to discover.

Today is different, however. The flutes come in clutching their cases and music. Taichi lugs his entire tuba through the doorway : no case in sight. Izumi lets everyone get settled in their chairs before she peels away from her desk and gets up on her podium.

“That’s everyone, right?” she asks, raking her eyes over the attendance count one last time. She’s even managed to snag a ‘Kazunari joins the band room’ day. Lucky her. “Alright, sorry for stealing some of your sectional time away. After the announcement, I’m gonna steal a few of you to talk about your soloist pieces for the expo. Then you can join your section or everyone can just go home early for the day. So, Tsumugi-kun, Tasuku-kun, Sakyo-kun, Tsuzuru-kun, and Taichi-kun, remember to stay a little afterwards for me.”

She waits until they all nod.

“Excellent! So the news for today is part good and part bad, depending on how you look at it. I did not manage to get full permission for all of you to take your instruments home, but I got us a deal instead. I talked with the principals, and they want to see us spread our wings a little as a club before they let us have all the privileges of a club.”

Sakyo snorts from the third row.

“ _So_ , one of the steps I thought we could start with is having club positions! It’s kind of redundant, I guess, since we already have our section leaders, but having something closer to what the other clubs have for bureaucracy might win us brownie points. And, hey, if you guys want to organize a few things or participate in school activities as a club later down along the line, this will help.”

Predictably, hands go up. Izumi points to Tsuzuru.

“Did the principals say that we could take instruments home if we do this?”

“It was implied,” Izumi answers dryly. “They’ll never outright say yes to anything if it’s conditional, but the hope is it’ll end up going that way for us.”

“How will we be deciding the positions?” Omi asks : ever the practical one.

“That’s the question!” Izumi leans down on her conductor’s stand. “I was thinking we’d go by seniority of class year to give all our third-years their chance first and then trickle down to second years.” A general consensus of satisfied nods. “I’ve already half-asked Sakyo-kun to do some financial work with me, so if the rest of you are okay with it, he could be our treasurer?”

Masumi glowers from the third row. The rest of the band either shrugs or nods. That’s pretty good in Izumi’s book.

“Alright, then do we have any volunteers for president, vice president, or secretary?”

And there’s the silence she was hoping to not encounter.

A neutral quietude falls over her students. A few of them glance between the other members of their section. Izumi taps her toe inside her shoe.

She’s a little surprised that Tasuku isn’t more eager to take leadership, considering how displeased he’s been with the level of the band and the lack of other students in his own section. But the boy just stares at his music stand.

A hand comes from her flutes.

“I’ll do it,” Tsumugi says quietly, “if no one else wants to.”

No one objects.

“I’ll go for vice president,” Tasuku offers after a moment.

Izumi glances between the two of them. She can’t tell for sure if this is bad blood or not. She nods, in any case. “Alright. And secretary? That’d be someone who keeps track of how quickly we’re going through our practice books and, ideally, would keep an eye on who checks instruments out and who comes in to the band room outside our usual hours to practice.”

A small part of her is hopeful that Guy might raise his hand for this. She could use a level-headed third year for this, especially one who’s a year older than the rest. Sakyo lightly nudges him, but Izumi catches the shake of Guy’s head. So, he doesn’t want – or think he should want – to do it.

She’s about to open it up to second years – she’s hoping for Omi – when a hand comes up from the third row. She’s surprised to find that it belongs to their resident French horn.

“Well, I suppose I could always lend a hand,” Homare offers. “I _do_ have plenty of free time on my hands as of late.”

“Alice loses things too often,” Hisoka sighs.

“How uncouth,” Homare sniffs. “I can keep track of things of importance such as this. If the Director will have me, of course.”

A glance to Tsumugi hints to Izumi that her president’s more than happy to have Homare as their secretary. A glance to Tasuku and Sakyo on the other side of the room hints to Izumi that a perpetual headache may be on the horizon.

“Love to have you on board,” Izumi enthuses. Hisoka rolls his eyes. Izumi wonders how much of Hisoka she’ll see throughout the rest of the year as he plays clean-up behind Homare’s whirl of energy.

She claps her hands together.

“So, that’s decided! I guess there isn’t much to do for now as far as those positions are concerned. Maybe you four can meet with me every Monday either during lunch or after club? We can go from there for that. Maybe we can participate in a few local competitions and festivals over the summer, and we can coordinate that. Uh, for now, though! Everyone’s dismissed for the day, then. I’m sticking around until,” she hesitates.

How long _does_ she want to stay today? She hazards a glance at the clock. It’s 4:00. She considers this.

“I’ll stick around until five, if any of you want to run through your sectionals before going home. Soloists, don’t forget to meet with me.”

And the band breaks into chatter.

Tasuku and Taichi beeline for her, and she waves them over to her desk. Behind them, she can tell that the other three are going to take some time before splitting from their section.

Sakyo and Guy, whatever they’re discussing, seem thoughtful together. Similarly, the flutes have already launched into their tightly-knit twittering : Itaru and Banri pestering Tsumugi as the poor third year flushes uncomfortably red in embarrassment. And Izumi knows better than to underestimate just how long Citron can keep Tsuzuru for.

“Thanks for volunteering for vice president,” Izumi says to Tasuku. She shuffles some of the things off her desk. “It got really quiet there for a moment!”

“I just didn’t want Tsumugi to let himself get spoken over again,” Tasuku replies. “It’s good he picked president.”

Izumi privately agrees. It seems Tsumugi’s close friendships with Itaru and Banri are helping his self-esteem blossom.

“Woah,” Taichi enthuses. His eyes practically shine up at Tasuku. “That’s so cool. Like. That’s modern shivery right there!”

“Chivalry,” Tasuku awkwardly corrects.

“Yeah, that!”

Izumi notices Tsuzuru peel himself away from Citron. That must mean Citron will grab either Guy or Itaru- Ah, he’s grabbing Guy today. Sakyo will be joining them shortly, then. That just leaves Tsumugi.

Tasuku sighs. Sakyo picks up on this.

“I know what they say about flutes,” Sakyo starts off dry in tone, “but they really do chatter like birds.”

It’s a fair appraisal of Itaru and Tsumugi, Izumi supposes. She’s pretty sure that simile makes a hard stop at Banri, though. He may play his flute as easily as a bird sings its song, but there isn’t much else to draw similarities between.

Hyodo stands up from his chair to leave, having finished packing up his clarinet. Izumi supposes Omi must have given the clarinets the day off. No sooner does Hyodo start off towards the door than Banri says something quick to the other two and sprints to catch up with the clarinet.

The small distraction lets Tsumugi’s attention drift enough that he realizes the rest of them are waiting for him. He jumps up from his seat.

“Wait for me at the gate?” he asks Itaru. A nod, and Tsumugi’s already at Izumi’s desk.

“S- sorry,” he apologizes. “I got distracted.”

“You and Itaru-san get along really well, don’t you?” Taichi comments. “That’s really cool!”

Tasuku snorts. “Get along well, indeed.”

Tsumugi swats his arm. Izumi hides her own smile.

“I wanted to ask all of you about your solo piece selections. I know I’ve only given you a week to think about it or so, but I think giving you as much time to practice is also important. If you don’t have something decided on yet, that’s okay! We can talk about some options together.” Izumi glances between the group. “How many of you have a piece already?”

Tasuku and Sakyo raise their hands without hesitation. Tsuzuru’s follows, then Tsumugi’s. Alright, Izumi thinks. She’ll get to Taichi in a moment.

“Are you all okay if we go left to right?” she asks. General agreement. “Alright, Tsumugi-kun, would you start us off?”

“Um,” Tsumugi stammers. “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to perform it in the end, but I want to try the best I can.” Tasuku raises an eyebrow from behind Tsumugi. “I know it’s a difficult piece, and I know it will take a lot of time to play well.”

“Spit it out,” Sakyo sighs.

Tsumugi steels himself. “I want to try Syrinx.”

“Syrinx?” Izumi repeats. That’s proper flute repertoire for professionals. “That _will_ be a lot of work.”

“Tasuku and I talked it over,” Tsumugi admits. “We agreed that the most difficult parts of Syrinx are the skills that I’m better at on flute.”

It is true, Izumi concedes. Where Tsumugi lacks air and confidence on his high and low notes, he knows his keys better than most flutes at his level or even at the music school level. The tempo and rapid notes shouldn’t bother him much, nor should his control over piano and pianissimo for the tapers.

“Well,” she says, “if you’re willing, then I’ll help you with all I got. Do you need me to find sheet music for you?”

“I already bought a repertoire book, and it’s in there.”

Izumi nods. This is an impressive step for him ; she’s proud. “Alright then. Tasuku-kun? What were you thinking?”

“Narcissus.”

“That’s a flute piece, isn’t it?”

Tasuku nods shortly. “I was hoping to go over my transcription for sax with you in the next week.”

“That’s fine with me!”

Privately, Izumi’s a little surprised that Tasuku chose such a simple piece for his performance. ‘Narcissus’ is pretty enough, though, and she’ll trust their mutual agreement on their pieces. She turns to Sakyo.

“Tales of the Wanderer : Act 3.”

A respectable choice, indeed, she thinks. She turns to Tsuzuru.

“Uh, I’m thinking about April Moon’s Crescent Boat.”

“Ooh!” Izumi enthuses. “That one’s a lot of fun. We’ll have to work on your range for the high notes in the middle.”

Tsuzuru nods sheepishly. “That’s why I wasn’t sure about choosing it.”

Izumi can understand the panic at being asked to hold some of those notes. “Don’t let that chase you away from the piece, though! I have plenty of tricks up my sleeve for long high notes.”

That leaves Taichi. She turns to the boy and tries to make sure that her expression is kind. The last thing she wants is for someone with a lot of hidden talent like Taichi to think that she’s angry at him for not performing his best at all times.

“Do you have anything on your mind for what you want to perform?” she asks. “Sweet Buns’ Kitchen might be a great match for you. I can think of a bunch of others, too.”

“Ah,” Taichi laughs nervously. His voice cracks, and he immediately breaks off : face flushing a little darker. “I was, uh, thinking that I might not do a solo?”

“Don’t be a fool,” Sakyo immediately scoffs. “I’ve seen you play. You’re at my level if not better. On _more_ than just euph and tuba.”

Taichi flinches. “Yeah,” he mumbles.

“Really?” Tsumugi asks. “That’s really impressive, even for music school students. How long have you been practicing on them?”

Taichi shifts his weight, seemingly unsure whether or not to deflect or accept the praise. “I started with euphonium and trombone when I was in grade school. I started clarinet when I got accepted to fill one of Godza Middle School’s spots back in middle school. I, uh, actually performed with Tasuku-san then because he filled the saxophone chair that night.”

Tasuku straightens. “Did I?”

“I wasn’t very noticeable,” Taichi smiles. “I’m not surprised that you didn’t remember.”

“That’s,” Tasuku hesitates. “I’m sorry about that.”

Taichi shakes his head. Tsumugi shares a glance with Tasuku.

“I started tuba around that time, too. But I haven’t picked up a new instrument in about a year and a half now. So, it’s just those four.”

“Still,” Tsumugi encourages, “four instruments is a lot of hard work and perseverance.”

“So why not the solo?” Sakyo asks. Of the four of them, he’s the one who still is as stern as he was before Taichi’s admittance. “You have three tries to catch the eye of a scout. You’d be a fool to throw that out if you want a shot at music school.”

Taichi shrugs. His frown wobbles. “I don’t want people to treat me different, I guess.”

“No one would,” Izumi promises.

“Sakuya might.”

“Oh,” Tsumugi hums through his growing smile. “I see now.”

Tasuku rolls his eyes at the same time Tsuzuru chuckles under his breath. Sakyo looks like he might have a hernia soon, if he doesn’t stop clenching every tendon and muscle in his body. Izumi leans back in her chair.

“I don’t think Sakuya would think any less or higher of you if he knew you weren’t just a beginner.”

“I kinda already told him about the clarinet,” Taichi admits. This doesn’t seem to ease him. “I give tips, now and then, after school when we hang out.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“I dunno. We didn’t really know each other well before that, but I guess I liked it more when I wasn’t the one he came to for advice. He’s older than me, y’know?”

“By how many months again?” Sakyo sighs.

Taichi doesn’t seem to catch the sarcasm. “Seven months,” he supplies immediately. “So, it feels really awkward that he sees me as someone to get advice from.”

“Come on,” Tsuzuru tries, failing to not laugh halfway through. “I don’t think Sakuya’s thinking too hard about it.”

“It’s not just Sakuya!” Taichi wails. “Juza-san, too! How do you think he’d treat me if he knew I was hiding that I can play clarinet? I can’t do that! What if he thinks-”

“Juza-kun seems to be a perfectly level-headed boy,” Tsumugi interrupts gently. “His patience with Banri-kun should already speak to how much he wouldn’t care either way if you talented at his instrument or not.”

“Besides the point,” Tasuku gripes. “You’re not playing clarinet in the solo. You’d play euph.”

“Still!”

“Alright,” Izumi cuts in. She tries to tamper her smile down when Taichi looks at her again with his puppy dog eyes. “No one’s making you perform a solo if you don’t want to. If you want to sit this year out, I get it. I totally get it, trust me. Crushes and friends are important.”

Tsuzuru and Tsumugi chuckle and giggle, respectively, at that.

“And you third years better not make fun of him,” she adds. Izumi particularly chooses to look at Sakyo for that. He sniffs. “Okay then. We have a pretty strong group going in for solos, then, with some strong pieces. This might catch a lot of attention for our band.”

“That could work for getting us funding,” Sakyo muses. “Assuming one of us is good enough to get scouted.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.”

“There’s also the band’s general performance to consider.”

“I think everyone will pull together in clutch for this.”

“No one says that anymore.”

“I do,” Izumi huffs. “So, Mr. Treasurer, we can think about how to spin this for the band’s funding later. Next… when did I say? Next Monday? That sounds right.” A nod from Tsumugi. “Hm, as for the solos, you can start practicing what you can for now whenever you have the time. Tasuku-kun, Tsuzuru-kun, you have instruments at home to use, right?” Nods. “Feel free to practice your pieces at home, then. You two,” she addresses Tsumugi and Sakyo, “can come here during lunch or cut your sectionals short – or stay later if you want – for your own practice time. We can work on some specific skill-building over the next few months when I visit your sections. Sound alright?”

Tsuzuru raises his hand. “I don’t think it would be good to leave Citron and Masumi in a room together while I practice for the solo.”

“Hmm,” Izumi doesn’t even have to think to agree with that concern. “We’ll think of something.”

Monday, Omi discovers, doesn’t hold back its punches. Omi knows quite a few things about dishing out punches and taking punches, and he’s pretty certain that he’d rather a ring-adorned knuckle to his eye than the news his father drops on him in the morning while Omi prepares his brothers’ lunches and said little brothers wash up in their bathroom.

They’ve finally run out of the weeks left on his father’s stipend from his paid time off. As such, his father had bet their remaining balance on a sports game. His team had lost. Omi smiles at his father and reassures him that it’s an easy financial mistake to make : that Omi gets his paycheck next week and that his father still has his part-time job. At school, Omi spends his classes thinking how to afford meals for the next six days. More specifically, he wonders how to mask this for his brothers’ sakes. Jun and Takeshi are, like most kids, enviably adept to noticing when things are wrong around them.

There’s more than enough rice in the pantry for Omi to rely on in a pinch, and he always has his spices and his herbs. It’s more so the vegetables and the meats that he’s worried about. Omi’s pretty sure they have a box of pasta somewhere in there – it’s been a while since he’s cooked a pasta, and every day he rues himself for it – and maybe, if he’s lucky, some sourdough bread.

There’s enough of his biweekly allowance left to buy low-grade salmon and maybe a few chicken wings. If he buys four salmon fillets at the seafood counter, he can satisfy the kids with one a night, especially if he sautés some garlic with eggplant and a bit of miso with mirin : maybe alternate that with some butter garlic-and-thyme risotto and perhaps he’ll flake the last fillet for a salmon fried rice. The chicken wings he can marinate in a miso-pepper sauce and grill with any leftover eggplant or maybe a few bell peppers. Then, there’s always the pasta he can boil and mix into a garlic-capers-and-chili sauté.

That should satisfy six days.

Omi remembers he has to take care of breakfasts, too. Hopefully, his little brothers won’t mind tamagoyaki and pickled greens with rice as their lunch for next week. Eggs are cheap, at least, and they already have the pickles in their pantry.

The logistic gymnastics, which thoroughly distracts him from being able to answer any of his teacher’s questions in-class, exhausts him before he can even touch his clarinet. So, he decides to take the day off from band club. He passes Mikage in the halls towards the end of lunch period and passes along the news.

Inexplicably, instead of going home after the bell ending sixth period, Omi finds his feet walking him straight to the art room.

Summer exhibits are coming up, and most of the art club is present : bent over backwards trying to perfect their submissions and competition pieces. Omi doesn’t even need to ask to know that Kazunari’s in the studio. Sure enough, the blonde’s hunched over his table in the back.

“Kazunari,” Omi greets.

Kazunari hums quietly in a sort of return greeting as he works on shading in the petals of his current project. Omi comes to a halt by Kazunari’s side and looks down at the piece. It’s gorgeously complex flower with rows upon rows of small, triangular petals. It’s a busy flower, too. Omi’s almost surprised that Kazunari has the patience for such a project while in a slump.

He’s about to pull up a chair when Kazunari finishes a petal and leans away from the table to stretch his back and shoulders. He swirls both his wrists a little to give them a break. Then, he glances up at Omi.

A mischievous grin forms. “‘Sup, Omimi?”

“I figured I’d find you here rather than the band room.”

“I was in the band room yesterday!”

“Indeed you were,” Omi agrees mildly.

They have another small stare-off. From Omi’s side, there’s nothing but a patient willingness for Kazunari to get his fill and return to shading. The widening of Kazunari’s grin tells Omi he’s going to have to rethink that plan.

“Omimi,” Kazunari says at last. “I wanna _paint_.”

And that is how Omi finds himself accompanying Kazunari home. While Omi’s house is a little east and a little north from the school : tucked in along the train tracks, Kazunari’s house is closer to the train station itself and all of its bustling shops. It’s rare that Omi gives himself the time to visit Kazunari, but he does like quite a bit Kazunari’s parents’ place. Maybe it’s the rusty, metal “balconies” on the second-floor bedrooms, maybe it’s the warm scents of the kitchen that always greet guests, but Omi loves it.

Today, both of Kazunari’s parents are out at their work. A few cookies sit on the counter covered with a glass cloche. Kazunari offers one, and Omi accepts it. It’s an almond cookie, Omi discovers with delight : a very buttery one, at that.

That would be another option for his brothers. There’s never a dearth of flour or sugar in Omi’s house ; he can whip up some sugar cookies for them as snacks.

Omi sits on Kazunari’s bed finishing the cookie as Kazunari fetches his paints and brushes. Omi laughs when Kazunari grabs a step-stool to reach the top of his dresser.

“Are you still hiding your paints from your sister?”

“She’s a little devil,” Kazunari laughs along with him. He just barely manages to snatch the boxes off the top. “I’m sure you keep your camera way out of your brothers’ reach.”

“Ah, I can’t deny that.”

Omi had started doing that when Takeshi broke the outer lens a few years back. He’s distracted from the memory when he spots Kazunari dragging out a space heater.

“What’s the heater for?”

Kazunari wriggles his eyebrows. “Keep you warm if you get chilly.”

“And,” Omi continues to eye the heater as Kazunari sets it up on a chair facing his spot on the bed, “why would I get cold?”

“Nude painting, bro.”

Omi really should have seen this one coming. He sighs. Truly, not a week goes past without Kazunari asking in some way or other to do something like this.

“I thought painters liked heavier set people when painting,” he jokes as he sets to shrugging his school blazer off. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer in that regards.”

“Cellulite _is_ kinda fun. But I’ve never gotten to paint rock-hard muscles like yours!”

Omi finishes unbuttoning his shirt and takes it off. He folds his shirts into a neat pile at the end of the bed. Kazunari huffs.

“Pants, too!”

“How nude were you thinking?”

“Uh, full nude?”

Omi hesitates. He’s never been in the nude around people outside his immediate family. They’ve never really had the time nor money for onsen, and Omi’s never been fond of the antics in public or school showers.

“Or just your underwear, if you’re uncomfy!” Kazunari adds in a rush. “I’m not tryin’ to make you do something you don’t wanna!”

“No,” Omi disagrees. He starts on his belt buckle. “It’s alright.”

It’s a blessing that Kazunari seems much more preoccupied with his paints than with Omi undressing. As such, Omi can let the awkwardness of tugging off his boxers on another man’s bed hit him without trying to hide the unique anxiety. Even as he’s folding the pants and boxers, Kazunari’s talking to himself as he debates whether or not to include burnt sienna in his palette.

“How, uh, how did you want me to sit?”

Kazunari looks up from his paints. “Uh,” he looks Omi up and down once before looking off at a corner of the ceiling as he thinks. “Hmm, not to go French, but one leg up and one down while reclining on your elbow would look good, I think.”

Omi can’t say he knows what that would look like. He positions himself a little to the side and brings up his right leg onto the bed, left leg down, and leans back a little so that he’s propped up with his elbow.

“Like this?”

“Uh,” Kazunari says, “hmm, not quite? You cool if I position you?”

“Sure?”

There’s a weird drop in the stomach – not at all a _bad_ feeling, necessarily – as Kazunari comes over. Kazunari’s hands are surprisingly hot against Omi’s skin. It helps greatly in getting Omi to relax, as it’s easier to lean into the touch and let it guide, but the tightness in the stomach only knots tighter.

Warm hands guide Omi to lean back against a propped-up pillow, to spread his legs a little wider and let one drape off the edge of the bed while the other is bent a little at the knee : to cradle his head with his arms and lean a little to one side so that his face is still visible. He’s gently tilted to better face the easel.

Kazunari pauses and clears his throat. “Am I allowed to, uh,” he gestures lamely, “would you rather? Or is it okay if I,” the same hand gesture, “position your, uh… noodle?”

Omi bursts out laughing. Kazunari’s hands try to hold him in place even as Omi curls in a little on himself through his laughter. Honest to God, that’s the funniest damn thing to have ever left Kazunari’s mouth, Omi would swear on it.

“You can call it what it is,” Omi finally settles back down into position, still chuckling.

“No, I couldn’t!” Kazunari protests. “I wasn’t gonna, you know! That’s awkward I can’t just ask to… you know!”

“Touch my dick?”

“Stop!” Kazunari yells, now starting to laugh too. “Oh my god, this is such a mess. Okay, you can like. Move it?”

“Yeah?” Omi teases, reaching down with a hand. “Where to?”

Kazunari hits him lightly. “Shut _up_ , I’m supposed to be the cool suave art student.”

“I didn’t start this,” Omi laughs back. “Where should I put it?”

“Like,” Kazunari’s face and neck are flaming red, “on your thigh?”

“Here?”

“No, like,” Kazunari reaches out, then snatches his hand back. “Higher.”

Omi, instead, just moves his arm back up to his head. “How about you just put it where you want it, and we move along? Your parents are going to be home in a few hours, right? How much time do you need to paint?”

“Like two hours maybe, if I rush,” Kazunari mumbles.

Daintily, Kazunari nudges Omi’s dick a little higher on his thigh, resting it just north of the crook in Omi’s thigh muscles. Objectively, this is still incredibly funny in Omi’s eyes : that this is the same Kazunari who asked him to strip just five minutes ago without any proper warning. Subjectively, it’s a very strange sensation to have someone else’s hand on your dick, and it’s getting harder and harder to keep the carefree smile on his face when his stomach keeps tensing up every time Kazunari’s knuckles brush it.

It’s over before Omi can get too panicked. Kazunari checks him one last time, tilting him even just a little more towards the easel, before returning back to his paints.

“Tell me when you want the fan or heater. It’s a good temp in here so far, but I’m not the one without my clothes on.”

Omi swallows the lump in his throat. “It’s good for now,” he lies. It’s stiflingly hot.

The heat vanishes quickly, though. The truth of nude modeling, Omi quickly discovers, is that it’s horribly, horribly boring. Over the next hour, even with him and Kazunari keeping light conversation, Omi feels as though he has memorized every nook and cranny of that side of Kazunari’s bedroom.

His desk is covered in old gardener’s books and floriography guides. Three of them have pale covers ; two of them have black covers. There’s a box of H pencils open on the desk, half leaning on a closed five-by-seven, spiral-ring sketchbook. The extension cables in the foot space underneath the desk are horribly tangled. It’s a genuine fire hazard, and Omi has mentioned this twice.

And Kazunari has no less than five streaks of paint on his face from accidentally wiping his face with the chisel too close. His smock is smeared with the paint spilling off the edges of the palette that he cradles against his chest.

Another hour passes. Kazunari’s turned the space heater on and repositioned it three times : first on Omi’s admittedly freezing toes, then onto his ‘noodle,’ and back to his toes. Kazunari opens the window to let the heat of the day in, as well. An excruciating five minutes is spent with Kazunari staring very intensely at Omi’s hips and thighs as he figures out how to paint the shadows of the crooks there. Kazunari makes a joke about Omi learning how to pole dance. Privately, Omi doesn’t think that’s a horrible idea.

Omi’s lightly drifting off between light sleep and lazy wakefulness as the sun grows closer to the horizon outside the window. The room’s lighting turns amber in the sunlight. Kazunari puts on some quiet music.

“Uh, Omimi?” Kazunari pipes up.

Omi hums. He’s still chasing the tail-end of a good dream.

“Your, uh. Hm.”

At first, Omi’s not sure what Kazunari’s talking about. Then, he feels the heaviness down on his thigh. He goes warm in embarrassment.

“Ah. I see.”

“No worries! Thought I’d… say something. Uh, I only have the feet left, and then I'll be done.”

Omi hums and shuts his eyes again. His arms are starting to ache from being up around his head for so long.

The bedroom door opens.

The next few seconds are a blur. Omi near catapults himself off the bed, ripping the blankets right out of Kazunari’s neatly-made bed to cover himself with. Kazunari shrieks for Omi to not move and lunges forward as if to stop him. Kazunari’s foot hits a leg of the easel. The easel, with its canvas, topples to the floor. Kazunari drops the palette. Kazunari trips. A mess of paints, wood, cloth, and Kazunari pool on the floor.

Misumi stands wide-eyed at the door : schoolbag still in hand.

Omi suddenly understands why deer and dogs freeze up in the streets when a bike or car is hurtling towards them.

“Misumi,” he tries. “I… we should have left a note on the door.” He remembers the mess of Kazunari on the floor. “Kazunari, are you alright?”

Kazunari doesn’t budge. Omi tears the rest of the blankets off the bed and crouches down next to the blonde. His hair is _covered_ in acrylics : stained ambers and siennas like the sunset’s light in the bedroom.

“Kazunari?” Omi tries again.

Slowly, Kazunari lifts himself up and off the canvas. Half the painting sticks to Kazunari’s smock. He and Omi stare down at the ruined canvas. Omi worries that this might be one of the last blows to Kazunari’s enthusiasm with art. He suddenly wishes he had not reacted with such shock to Misumi opening the door.

“Kazu?”

Inexplicably, Kazunari chuckles. Omi figures this is a very bad sign. The chuckles turn into full-fledged laughter rapidly enough, and Kazunari braces himself back on his hands as he guffaws into the space of the room and loud enough to travel far out the window. He pushes some of the larger smears of paint away from his eyes. In the next second, he smears the blue highlight paint onto Omi’s cheek. Omi blinks. Kazunari laughs harder.

“Kazunari?”

“Sorry!” Kazunari gasps for air. “You looked so worried! Oh my God!” Kazunari smiles down at the ruined painting. “Man, I just wish it had been something else. It was turning out to look really good!” He winks at Omi. “Guess you’ll have to pose again for me!”

Omi cautiously nods.

“Kazu?” Misumi’s small voice comes from the doorway. Both Omi and Kazunari turn to face him, and Misumi flinches back further behind the doorframe. “I’m sorry, Kazu. I ruined your painting.”

“That’s okay!” Kazunari laughs. “I needed something like this. I feel alive!”

Misumi’s expression doesn’t change. “Are you mad at me?”

“Sumi, of course not!”

Kazunari picks himself off the floor. He looks down at his smock and laughs. He slowly approaches Misumi in the doorframe. Misumi vanishes from sight, but Kazunari coaxes him back into the room. Omi offers Misumi a comforting smile when the boy glances at him.

“What were you doing?”

“Ah,” Omi sheepishly pulls the blankets a little closer. “I let myself get talked into nude modeling, I’m afraid.”

“Why didn’t you ask me to be naked?” Misumi asks Kazunari. His tone is laced with bitter accusation.

Omi winces and looks down.

“I wanted to try my hand at painting someone who’s really muscly! You have the best figure for when I wanna paint a cutie, though!”

Misumi doesn’t seem appeased with this answer.

“I should get back into my clothes,” Omi says to ease some of the tension. He moves back over to his pile of clothes before remembering the paint smear on his cheek. He searches for a tissue box.

Kazunari ends up talking Omi into staying for dinner somehow. Technically, Omi doesn't change his mind about going home until Kazunari steals his phone and dials his father. With the phone in his hands and his father asking him what the call was for, Omi finds himself saying that he’ll be at a friend’s for dinner. He gives his father cooking instructions for the garlic, capers, and chilis pasta, and that is that.

He sits at the dinner table with Misumi, listening to Misumi explain what happened in band that day. Apparently, the Director had them all do a ‘rhythm-building’ day as a whole band : bouncing tricky rhythms between the different instrument sections and working on both their entrance timing and their rhythms. Misumi admits that playing his single snare in the percussion section is lonely.

Omi figures he should work harder on convincing Kazunari to spend time in the band club beyond their required meetings.

“Kazu doesn’t listen to me when I ask him,” Misumi mumbles. His hands play with a hangnail. He accidentally forgot his fidget spinner on the xylophone. “I don’t know if he’ll listen to you.”

“Sometimes, people need to hear things from a wider party,” Omi reasons. “I’m sure Kazunari still is listening to you. Maybe he just doesn’t feel that he belongs there enough yet.”

Misumi frowns down at the hangnail. “Why aren’t I enough?”

“I don’t know if that’s how Kazunari sees it. Have you tried asking him?”

“I wanna. But he’s always with you now.”

“Do you dislike me because of that?” Omi asks. He hopes he sounds as genuine as he feels. He doesn't want to make a mess of their relationship by butting in too much.

“No,” Misumi wilts. “I want to, but I don’t. I like Omi. I wanna be friends with Omi. Kazu’s being dumb.”

Omi nods to himself. “I’ll try talking to him about it again,” he promises. “Maybe, in the meantime, you could try reaching out to some of the other band kids? You’re always welcome to keep the clarinet section company. Sakuya and Juza are both very sweet, and Hisoka is a nice person even if he seems a little quiet.”

“I dunno.”

“What about Itaru-san in the flute section? From what I hear, Banri’s not living with his parents, either. Maybe the two of you could use that as a common ground to start talking.”

Misumi shrugs. The door to the garage begins to creak open, signaling that Kazunari’s mom is back from work. At the same time, the pipes shudder as Kazunari turns off the water in the shower. Then, the kitchen is quiet.

The door to the garage jingles a little, and Kazunari’s mom breezes in carrying a few boxes of paints.

“Omi-kun!” she exclaims upon noticing him at the table. “It’s been so long since we’ve had you over! How are you doing? I’m so sorry we don’t have dinner ready yet.” She pauses. “What on Earth is my son up to?”

Misumi doesn’t answer, so Omi does for him.

“Um, Kazunari and I made a mess in his bedroom with acrylics. We spent a lot of time cleaning that up, and he’s showering now. I’m really sorry for causing so much trouble.”

“Oh, not at all!” She hangs her keys up on the rack. “What were you doing, though, to make a mess of something like acrylics?”

There’s no way Omi is telling her about _that_. “Uh. I startled him. Well. I got startled, and then I startled him, and he tripped, and him and the paints and the easel went on the floor.”

Kazunari’s mom immediately starts laughing. A similar reaction to Kazunari’s, Omi observes.

“What a coincidence!” she finally recovers enough to speak. “My husband did almost the exact same thing to me one time. He thought I was going to be so mad, but I just thought it was the funniest thing that something I spent so much time on got ruined because a little human error.”

Ah, that makes more sense, Omi supposes. Undoubtedly, Kazunari knows this story, too.

Kazunari’s mom heads for the kitchen sink to wash her hands and start dinner.

“It’s funny,” Kazunari’s mom sighs as she turns on the water. “Sometimes, you get so trapped by your own artwork. It’s like… you have to be perfect at it, you know? Because if you’re not, anyone can look at it and see you as a failure. And then you never want to create because, you know, what _if_ it doesn’t turn out good? Then you’re always doing the same thing because it’s what you’re best at. But of course, once you start doing that, you never get better at anything else.”

She wipes her hands on the towel.

“Seeing all the randomness of the human experience on your canvas can really snap you out of it. Like. I spent hours on this thing because I’m tormented by the standards I put on myself. And then someone or something comes in and bam! But it’s okay, of course, because you love whatever it was that interrupted. And so you remember that there are more important things than your artwork.” She hesitates. “Or so it _should_ be. Art isn’t something to get mad over, nor fight over : or anything like that.”

She turns to Omi and Misumi again. “My boy didn’t get angry at you, did he?”

Omi shakes his head. “He laughed.”

This seems to put Kazunari’s mom at ease. A small, tired smile flickers onto her stress-wrinkled features. She pulls a cast-iron pan out of their cupboards.

“Good,” she hums. “That’s good that he hasn’t lost sight of things.”

The frown continues to tug at the corners of Misumi’s lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> upon editing i remembered that i wrote abt izumi owning a cat named 'kimchi' and im dying all over again. i just want a cute little orange tabby named kimchi one day <3 and a brown tabby i can call 'curry'... im a simple man i love pets with cute food names
> 
> the sakisaka and rurikawa in this are muku and yuki's older sisters!! i like to think that mukus sis is a sweetheart who loves stage crew, and yuki's older sister (like the other older sister) is one of those snobby 'i Must play the lead' sopranos


	15. the swan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the two birds begin their dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ckit begins in this one! or rather... it's the beginning... of the beginning... i know a lot of ppl in the fandom dont like chikage ;-; admittedly he takes up pretty much the entire chapter and few upcoming ones, but he's not As big of an asshole in this fic i promise. ofc hes still an asshole tho. all the ckit chapters are going to have birds in their title (birds that mate for life or close to it <3), so feel free to skip around!
> 
> tw // mild harassment, implied? slurs (theyre not actually written in)

The June sunlight is warm and bright in the late afternoon, beaming down on the school and warming the cement and macadam pavements, heating classrooms through the windowpanes, and inviting the droning buzzes of the early summer bugs : cicadas and the like. It’s almost warm enough for Itaru to think that he’s hot, but the breeze is cool enough and gentle. The warmth is comfortable, not sweltering. The air smells good.

Itaru hasn’t had the opportunity to linger here on the walkway between the school buildings before. There had been a few short minutes, waiting for Citron or Guy to accompany to or from band club, but he’s never really spent time here. And he has plenty of time today.

Tsumugi is spending the last thirty minutes of sectionals' time reviewing his solo piece with the director. They'll be out by the table in the back of the school grounds for a while longer still. And Banri, ever-predictable, has blown off practicing with Itaru in favor of finding Juza and Sakuya in the clarinet section : wherever the clarinets have hidden themselves away for the day.

So, it’s just Itaru and his flute out here enjoying the June air. And, of course, his music book. He reviews the pieces in the back of the book idly, taking long breaks to stare off towards the school fences and beyond, daydreaming about Qingyun Peak and Zhongli. Zhongli’s a lot like Guy, Itaru thinks, but also a little like Citron. Perhaps that’s why he enjoys Zhongli so much as a character. He still can't believe he didn't manage to pull him a single time throughout the banner. But, hey, if he can score Ganyu, then he'll forgive the gatcha gods for their stringency.

He blinks away his daydreams and tries to focus on the descending eighth notes of the piece he’s been working on. He still can’t manage to get his fingers to quickly go through E flat, D, C, E flat, D, C, D, A flat, E flat as quickly as the director would like him to. It’s too tricky : the D-C-E flat and the D-C-D.

The doors to his left slide open, and Itaru immediately drops the flute away from his lips. There's still a unique type of embarrassment that comes with practicing something he's not good at. The idea of another student witnessing him is mortifying. He's determined to stare at his music book until they leave.

“Ah, so it’s you making those horrible noises.”

Itaru’s grip on his flute tightens ; he doesn’t want to put up with this. Especially not this guy. He turns his head to the third-year. The third-year smiles pleasantly enough at him, but the warmth doesn’t meet his eyes. The doors are slid shut, and the guy walks on over to Itaru.

“You play the flute?”

Itaru turns away. He can’t fully ignore him – the guy did save him from Tonooka’s harassment a few weeks ago – but Itaru doesn’t want to even pretend to give him his full attention. These sorts of things always end horribly.

“I think responding is the appropriate way to react to a question.”

Itaru glares sharply at him. “I play it.”

“It’s a very lovely instrument. Very… fitting, I’d say, of your personality.”

“What are you implying?” Itaru knows where this is headed. He silently dares him to say it : a flute for a- Itaru composes himself.

“Who knows?” The third-year smiles at him. “Are you a beginner?”

“There’s a beginner’s book right in front of me, so I’d say yeah.”

“Have I caught you in a bad mood?”

Itaru grits his teeth. “Thank you for helping me earlier, but that doesn’t mean we’re friends. I’d appreciate it if you left me alone now.”

“What an uncute junior,” the third-year hums. “I suppose I expected a kinder reception to your senior.”

Itaru has to remind himself to not break the keys straight off his flute.

“Especially considering I know your secret.”

“It’s not a secret,” Itaru snaps.

“Oh?” The guy raises an eyebrow with a curious interest that raises Itaru’s guard all the more. “So, it’s alright if just anyone knows?”

“Half the students in band are gay,” Itaru mutters. He ignores the fact that it's more likely that _all_ the band is gay _._ “No one would be surprised, anyway.”

There isn’t a response to this. Itaru continues to stare down at his open booklet, loathing more and more with each passing second the painfully easy beginner’s notes on the page that he can’t even play at the correct tempo. After a moment, the third-year sighs and leans down on the balcony railing.

“That was cuter, I suppose. I guess I’ll have to take it, seeing as you’re so inept.”

“Thanks, _senpai_.”

The student smirks at this. Itaru realizes he might have started something bad. Damn, he should have kept his mouth shut.

“Call me Chikage, please.”

“No thanks, senpai,” Itaru bites : like an idiot. Chikage’s smirk only widens. The dangerous leer behind his frames deepens.

“Uncute,” Chikage remarks for the second time now. Itaru’s starting to sense a pattern. “Pray tell why a little bird like you is out here practicing alone under the sun? Are you trying to attract suitors?”

“I’m only a year younger than you.”

“I asked a question.”

Itaru hides a sigh. With the intensity of Chikage’s eyes, he’s worried that any shift of his expression will give something horribly incriminating away to the enemy. This is the worst stealth mission ever : confirmed. The stakes are shit, his stats are nerfed, his party’s empty, and he’s a solid twenty levels lower than the recommended strength.

So, like an idiot accidentally caught in an inescapable dungeon, Itaru gives it his best shot.

“The others are busy. I was only practicing out here for a few minutes. I should get back soon, anyway.”

“Try again.”

Itaru freezes. He doesn't dare look up.

“Excuse me?”

Chikage raises a cocky eyebrow. “Too obvious of a lie. Try again.”

Itaru scowls. Chikage seems to lean in even closer.

“Sorry, _senpai_ , but I’m not interested in whatever you want from me. I’m not looking for a date right now. And I should go. Please don’t bother me again.”

“Who says I’m interested in having you as my date?” Chikage asks with the full air of innocence.

“Too obvious of a lie,” Itaru fires back. He snatches up his practice book. “Bye.”

“Wait, wait,” Chikage calls. Itaru doesn’t stop. “I think we’ve started off on the wrong foot.”

“Whose fault is that, I wonder.”

Chikage chuckles. “You’ve quite the mouth on you, don’t you?”

Itaru pauses and looks over his shoulder back at the third-year. The distrust still thrums through his veins, but the third-year's persistence is just the smallest amount intriguing to him. Chikage simply stands by the railing, as if waiting. Itaru can’t believe he’s about to give this guy what he wants.

He returns to the place he had been standing : not meeting Chikage’s eyes.

“This proves nothing,” he threatens.

“Of course,” Chikage accepts without hesitation. Itaru feels something twitch in his jaw. “I came here merely with the intention to see how you were doing. I know your fight last month was quite the... event.”

“I’m _fine_ , thank you.”

“He’s not bothering you anymore, is he?”

“None of your business.” Chikage huffs at him, unimpressed. Begrudgingly, Itaru adds, “But no.”

“That wasn’t too hard, now was it?” Chikage sighs. “I’m happy to hear it. The last thing in the world I want is for a cute junior to get harassed by someone as worthless as that.”

“Then I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that I’m perfectly uncute.”

Chikage laughs. It’s a full and deep sound, coming from him. Itaru swears he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Because he’s disgusted, of course. He wonders if Tsumugi’s practice time is over yet. Maybe Banri’s grown bored of the clarinets. One of them, he begs silently, save him from this conversation.

“That boy called you Chigasaki, didn’t he?” Chikage asks.

“Close, but no beans.”

“I’m sure. Are you free this weekend, _Chigasaki_?”

“I’m afraid I’m busy.”

“I see.” Chikage continues to give Itaru that infuriating little smirk. “Perhaps another weekend, then.”

“Perhaps.”

“Not that I want to steal you away from your practice time. From the sound of it, you need every minute you can get.”

Itaru has one hell of an ugly retort on the tip of his tongue, but the doors to the second building slide open. He looks back ahead of him and finds Tsumugi standing in the doorway : an angel sent from heaven. Tsumugi doesn’t meet his eyes, however. Instead, Tsumugi stares straight past him and at Chikage.

“Itaru-kun,” Tsumugi calls in a strange, strained sort of voice. “Are you done practicing? The director’s called for the band to gather for our ensemble practice.”

Itaru resists the urge to look behind him to see what kind of expression is on Chikage’s face now. Tsumugi still doesn’t look at him.

“Yeah,” Itaru manages to say. He walks for the door, though his knees feel stiff.

When he reaches the door, Tsumugi takes him by a gentle but oddly firm hand and pulls him inside. As Tsumugi slides the door shut, Itaru just barely manages to catch the eerily stony frown weighing on Chikage’s face. And then the door is shut, and Itaru is staring at the wall. 'That was weird,' is all he can think.

“Itaru?” Tsumugi asks. “Are you alright?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Itaru takes the lead away from the door, and Tsumugi follows him by his side. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

“Of course. Who were you talking with?”

“Just a third-year,” Itaru dodges the question. “He helped me once before. He was checking in to make sure I was still doing okay.”

“Really?” Tsumugi mutters.

A glance to his side makes the crawl of discomfort on Itaru’s skin worsen. Tsumugi appears stern in a way he hasn’t seen before.

“Do you know senpai?” Itaru finds himself asking.

“Huh?” Tsumugi blinks. “Oh, sorry I was thinking about, um, my solo. No, I don’t think I’ve seen him before.”

Chikage’s voice comes unbidden in Itaru’s mind. ‘Too obvious a lie.’ Itaru hides the disbelief and simply shrugs, turning to look down the hallway as they walk together for the band room.

“Fair. He seems unforgettable enough.”

Tsumugi doesn’t reply to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'know despite swans being absolute assholes theyre surprisingly loyal in mating and parenting for water fowl...


	16. complication, healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some of what Banri's keeping bottled up slips through the cracks. Masumi realizes he doesn't love the director.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have been WAITING for this chapter. remember when liber gave us the smallest crumb ever by having tsumugi suggest to masumi that he loves izumi like he does his grandmother... and then masumi shot it down and it was never brought up again? anime wanted me DEAD by murdering akigumi but damn if they didnt give me the sakumasu development ive been dying for
> 
> no tw ^^*

Banri is hot as balls in the band room. June isn’t doing anyone any favors, and the fans that the director’s got set up is only making all of this half-bearable. Tsumugi cleaned his flute twice yesterday, he was sweating so bad. Then, of course, he had forced Banri and Itaru to clean theirs, too. Cleaning paper and polishing rags and all. And yet there are still the gunks of sweat crusted into some of the key divets and where Banri balances the instrument on his thumbs.

Of course, the heat has other detriments. For one, Banri’s hair is disgustingly dry and straw-like today, and he _just_ washed it this morning at Hyodo’s place. And the moment his thoughts drift to Hyodo, it’s game over.

The bastard will not stop squeaking on damn near _every other note_.

The director’s hand falls for the first beat of the next measure, and Banri slumps in his chair when, sure enough, the clarinets’ entrance is accompanied with a harsh squeak. Itaru elbows him to sit a little better. Tsumugi tries to give him a small, understanding smile even as his forehead beads with sweat, matting down his bangs, and he tries to keep his eyes on the director’s quick tempo.

“Alright, flutes!” the director announces. “In 2, 3, 4, and-”

Unlike the clarinets, the flutes can pull their entry off perfectly. Maybe Itaru was a little slow, but no one’s picking hairs when some of the other sections are still devastating. If Banri were a little politer of a person, he might not specifically glare at the mental images of Hyodo and Citron in his mind. He almost misses a note and refocuses on solely the notes.

“Trumpets in 2, 3, 4.”

Banri taps his foot in irritation off-tempo. Itaru nudges him again. He’s probably complaining about Banri throwing him off his count. Banri huffs. It’s not his fault that Itaru can’t keep two beats in his head at the same time.

“Clarinets I want twice in 3, 4-”

And the _one_ beat less of preparation must freak Hyodo out or something because the squeak doesn’t come on the entry but on the last beat of the trumpets’ part. Banri grits his teeth. The clarinets miss their entrance, the director lowers her hands, and the trumpets silence.

And before the director can say a word, Banri’s out of his chair. Hyodo catches on pretty quickly that a fight’s brewing. Banri sneers. Good for him.

“I’m going to go deaf if you squeak that god-forsaken dead fucking _duck_ in my ears one more _goddamn time_.”

Juza narrows his eyes to a practical slit. Banri’s aware his wording sucks, but _fuck_ he’s too hot and too angry and too many noises are around him and he’s so fucking _angry_ and-

“Banri-kun!” the director chastises. “I thought we agreed to talk to our clubmates with respect.”

“This guy keeps fucking up the entire band,” Banri argues back, pointing a finger for good fucking measure. “You know it’s messing the rest of us up. I thought you wanted to win some brownie points to get money and get the old farts off our backs. Having _him_ squeak like a goose ain’t gonna get us that, babe.”

The director looks down at her book for a moment. In the small pause, Banri realizes how harsh his words were. He recognizes, now, the small tightness of her jaw and her hands on the podium as she composes herself. The rest of the band, even Sakyo, is quiet. A small murmur rises from the percussion duo.

“Banri-kun,” the director finally says and raises her head. “I do not want to be spoken to like that. I don’t speak to you like that.”

Banri wilts a little. “Sorry,” he mumbles. And he is. ‘Babe,’ really, what the fuck was he doing? “I didn’t… It slipped out- I.” And he can’t really say anything because – no matter how he tries to explain it – it’ll still sound like he privately thinks of her as some broad.

“‘m tryin’ my best.”

The mumble comes from Hyodo. Banri turns back around to face him.

The idiot still has his clarinet in his hands : still poised as if ready to raise it to his lips. His eyes are angry, though, even as they glare down at the floor under Banri’s feet. And he’s sweating, too. Even Hyodo seems to find it unbearably hot. Banri can see the sweat stains from his hands on the black resin on his clarinet.

It’s a pathetic sight, and Banri _would_ back off, but Hyodo’s now glaring at _Banri_ , and something about that pisses Banri off again.

“Just sit down,” Hyodo sighs.

“Fuck you. How about _you_ learn how to play your instrument instead of squeaking like it’s still your first week on the goddamn thing.”

“Now,” Omi clears his throat, “squeaks happen even to experienced players sometimes and-”

“Least I don’t treat everythin’ like a ranked competition,” Hyodo interrupts. He glares up at Banri. “Not everythin’s ‘bout bein’ good.”

“The hell it isn’t,” Banri scoffs.

“If ya care ‘bout somethin,’ that’s enough. I’m tryin’ my best with the clarinet. Focus on your own.”

Banri snatches the music stand up from where it rests between the two of them. Hyodo’s and Mikage’s books fall to the floor. In Banri’s periphery, he can see Tsumugi flinch back from the sudden, violent motion. Mikage and Hyodo stare Banri down stonily.

“Enough with that passion bullshit, Hyodo,” Banri leans in. “If ya don’t have any skill, no one’s gonna give a rat’s ass”

“ _You’re_ just insecure because you don’t give a shit about anythin.’”

Banri throws the fucking music stand. There’s a small gasp from Tsumugi : another one from Tsuzuru. Banri lunges for Hyodo and fists the front of his shirt : clenches down on the white fabric.

“I don’t need to be passionate about anything if I’m good at it. It’s all the _same_ with you fucking idiots. _Passion_. Over and fucking over. I got some big news for ya. I ain’t passionate about _anything,_ and it makes my life a hell of a lot easier. So long as I can get _good_ at it, I’m set. There’s no point in tryin’ to fight to get good at something y’ain’t. I’m _sick_ of it.”

Banri realizes his eyes are stinging. They hurt pretty fucking bad. It’s not like it hasn’t been a while since he last cried, but it’s been years since he’s let himself do something like that in front of a crowd. He needs to go : now.

He lets go of Hyodo’s shirt and backs off.

“Continue to fuck up on the clarinet for all I care, jackass. You’ll rot before you get good at it.”

Hyodo meets Banri’s glare levelly. The stinging starts to mush up some of Banri’s vision.

“Banri-kun,” Tsumugi’s gentle voice says behind Banri. A hand finds the sleeve of his blazer. It shakes slightly. “It’s okay to love what you’re not immediately good at. I don’t know who taught you to think like this, but they were wrong.”

Banri tears his arm away. “No one _taught_ me,” he snaps. “I grew up.”

He isn’t going to bare his heart to the entire band just because Hyodo needs a reminder as to how much of a hindrance to the band he’s being.

“I’m done for the day.”

“Banri-kun,” the director tries, but Banri just raises his hand.

“I’m not in the mood to listen,” he mutters as he grabs his music. “Sorry, director. I need the day off.”

He catches a glimpse of the disappointment weighing down every single person’s face in that godforsaken room before he bails. There’s Omi’s motherly concern, the director’s adult urge to offer aide, Tsumugi’s intimate worry. Banri throws his flute in the instrument storage room and heads to the school gates. He needs some time to cool off.

“I hope Banri-san’s alright. He seemed really upset today. He’s not usually like that, you know? I wonder if something happened.”

Masumi shrugs as he looks through the books for beginners’ trumpet scores. Personally, he thinks Sakuya needs to cut it out with the fawning after all the other people in band. Taichi was annoying, but now it’s Banri and Juza, too. At least Sakuya doesn’t come to the music store with them. Masumi pauses for a moment. _That he knows of_.

“Do you think I should ask him tomorrow at lunch?” Sakuya continues, oblivious. “I don’t know if he’d talk to me, though.”

“I’m sure he’s fine.”

“But he never acts like this in class with us! What if something bad happened at home? What if he and Juza-san got into another big fight yesterday?”

Masumi sighs. “I don’t think it’s any of our business.”

“But it is! We’re bandmates, aren’t we? We should care about each other.”

“Just because we joined the same club doesn’t mean we’re anything alike. Or supposed to be friends.”

“Masumi, you haven’t even tried talking with them yet. I think you and Banri-san might really get along if you talked! You both like alternative rock! Maybe there’s more you have in common, too.”

Masumi doesn’t want to be anything like that guy. Except for maybe the skill with the flute. Masumi would accept that if Banri offered it to him. Maybe if Masumi played two instruments well, Sakuya would pay more attention to him : and _just_ him.

Aloud, he says, “Can’t imagine it.”

Sakuya doesn’t say anything further, and that makes Masumi feel a little bad. Maybe Sakuya only talks about these things with him. If that’s the case, then he can’t shoot the topic down and force Sakuya to go somewhere else with these private confessions.

“Maybe if we had lunch together or something, we’d have more reasons to talk.”

“You’d do that?”

Masumi glances over his shoulder and finds Sakuya wide-eyed : a small, open-mouthed smile on his chapstick-smeared lips (cherry, Masumi knows, because he stole Sakuya's pencil case during lunch once to see). Heat spreads over his chest.

“… Yeah.”

Sakuya beams at him. “It’d be fun to hang out together! We’re the Class 1-A trio in the band, right? We could do stuff after school and spend more time together in the band room.”

Masumi’s not sure about _all_ of that. Doing ‘stuff’ after school sounds suspiciously similar to ‘karaoke,’ ‘yakiniku,’ ‘festivals,’ and many other things that Masumi would decidedly rather _not_ do with the likes of… anyone who isn’t Sakuya, Masumi supposes to himself. But not because of anything special. Sakuya’s just a hard person to turn down. If there _was_ another person to do those things with, Masumi thinks on it, Tsuzuru wouldn’t be a horrible third wheel. At least he wouldn’t steal too much attention.

“I’ve been saving up my money, you know,” Sakuya hums. He fans through some of the trumpet books that Masumi puts down as ‘no.’ “I was thinking it might be fun to do something together on the weekends. If you’re available, that is! I don’t want to interrupt your studies or anything like that! Actually, maybe we shouldn’t.”

“What’d you want to do?”

Sakuya hesitates, and Masumi can feel his eyes on him. It’s warm.

“Maybe we could get shaved ice? Or, uh, if you don’t like that, we could do something else!”

Masumi picks out a book that he thinks he’d like to practice with. It’ll take some work, but there’s no reason he can’t hit some of the notes within a few weeks. He’ll just have to practice seriously.

“I’ve been meaning to get some new indie rock CDs,” he says, trying very hard to look like he doesn’t care too much about this. He read online that guys don’t like clingy – clingy girls? – clingy people. So, aloof it is. “You can come with, if you want. I can cover lunch.”

There’s silence. Unnerved, Masumi turns to properly see Sakuya. Within a second, he sees he had nothing to worry about.

“O- oh, I can’t make you pay for my lunch!”

“You just offered to buy me shaved ice. Let me buy lunch.”

“Really?”

Sakuya’s face and neck are slowly getting redder. It’s steadily coming to match his hair.

“Sure.”

Sakuya doesn’t answer Masumi then. With a dark face, he hides his nose in one of the books. Masumi kind of wants to do the same, though he of course doesn’t. Instead, he goes up to the register with the book in his hands.

The cashier tries making small talk with him as he rings up the book. Masumi is an expert at ignoring small talk. He doesn’t like the idea of it : trading bits of information about yourself in exchange for common politeness. The world would work better if emotional labor wasn’t the backbone of communication.

Sure enough, the cashier begins scowling silently after the third no-response he gets from Masumi.

Sakuya joins him, then, too. He saves the cashier a little : chattering about band and trumpet and clarinet. Masumi quietly tells the man he doesn’t need a bag.

It’s occurring to Masumi – steadily – that his night is up. It was a good run : staying out in the music store for a few hours to pass the time. But sunset is over, and Masumi supposes he should go home. Tonight’s a Tuesday evening, so the cleaner won’t be home to cook him a meal. He’ll have to make do until next Sunday, when she can prepare more meals for him. Tonight will have to be take-out or delivery. He wonders if Sakuya gets home-cooked meals at his home, even if he does miss dinnertime.

He wonders if it’s rude to ask.

None of this stops their turning towards the door, however. Sakuya’s already starting up the ‘closing remarks’ of the night : about how it was fun spending time with him, about how he can’t wait to meet up again tomorrow. Masumi hums and mumbles the appropriate replies.

There’s a little jingle of the door’s bell before they get to it, though. Masumi automatically moves over a little in the aisle, slows his gait so he doesn’t hit the person, but he doesn’t raise his eyes from the carpet.

“Oh, Sakuya-kun, Masumi-kun!”

Masumi’s gaze wrenches up. The director stands there in a pair of athletic shorts and a sweaty t-shirt, holding a water bottle. He feels a few joints in his spine crack into place as he finds his good posture.

“Director!” Sakuya enthuses and hops right up to her. “What are you doing here? Are you running?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” she laughs when she looks down at herself, as if she’s forgotten what she’s wearing. “I thought I’d pick up my order while I was on my run, since I’m running out of time.” She laughs again. “Pun not intended. What about you two?”

“Masumi and I were just hanging out for a few hours before we went home.”

“You haven’t gone home yet?” the director asks. She pops up an eyebrow and glances over to Masumi, too. He burns under her gaze. “Won’t you miss dinner? It’s 7:30, isn’t it?”

“I usually heat up leftovers. It’s not too bad!”

The director doesn’t seem thrilled with this information. She looks again at Masumi.

“Masumi-kun, what about your family?”

“They’re working. I’ll get takeout tonight.”

She worries her lip. “Well. Do you mind waiting for me? It’ll just be a minute, I have to sign and fill out some info, but.”

Masumi waits for Sakuya to answer her. Still, there’s some silence before Sakuya pipes up.

“Sure! We’ll be outside!”

The director gives them both small smiles as Sakuya grabs Masumi’s wrist and pulls him through the door.

Outside, Sakuya makes a small noise in his throat. Masumi can safely say he agrees. He didn’t like the look of the director biting her lip like that : like she was hearing something that concerned her. They move over to one of the bike racks, and Masumi leans against one while Sakuya hops up to sit on the other.

If it were mid-day, there might be a street cop to chastise them for taking up pedestrian space. But this time of day in this neighborhood, they’re fine. Sakuya swings his legs. Masumi runs his fingers over the pages of his music book.

“Maybe I should’ve said something else,” Sakuya chuckles nervously. “Sorry for dragging you into this, too.”

Masumi shrugs. “Not like my parents are gonna find out I tattled about it.” Sakuya doesn’t answer. “Will your family get mad if they get a call about neglect?”

“I don’t think they’re trying to neglect me,” Sakuya immediately defends. The sound of it irks Masumi. They’re not even feeding him ; of course it’s neglect. “But, um, yeah, Auntie probably wouldn’t like getting that phone call.”

“We could bail.”

“From the director?”

Masumi concedes that it is a pretty dumb idea. They wait in silence for a while more. The shadows stretch on the sidewalks : twisting themselves longer and longer. It’s quieter at sunset. The day cicadas are going to bed, and the night crickets have yet to wake up. But it’s still not as quiet as winter. There are the sounds from the train station a few blocks down, the cars, and the people and the dogs they walk.

The faint scent of a manjuu stand floats on the breeze. A pork bun sounds good : maybe that will be Masumi’s takeout dinner. Pork buns can be nutritious. It’s meat, there’s usually some napa and some scallion in it for greens, and there’s carbs, too. He’ll just balance it with a banana when he gets home.

The music store’s door jingles open. The director juggles her water bottle, a folder of papers, and an impressive music case.

Masumi immediately finds himself approaching her.

“Let me,” he says and scoops the case up. Unlike her, he can hold it against its chest without getting it dirty with sweat.

She blinks. “Oh, thanks! Sorry, I can take it back in a moment. I just gotta,” she stares down at her hands. “Okay, maybe doing this during my run was a bad idea.”

They return over to Sakuya, who is quick to take the papers, too, for her. The director wipes her hands with the towel around her neck.

“I’m sorry for keeping you two,” she apologizes. “I just want to make sure that the both of you have homes you’re going home tonight and food on your table for dinner and breakfast. I know a few of our band members don’t have that, and I don’t want anyone else to have trouble when I can offer help.”

“No, we’re fine!” Sakuya lies, but he says it so earnestly. “I just exaggerated a little.” The nervous chuckle he gives after that sells him out.

The director frowns. Masumi decides it’s worth a shot to keep Sakuya out of trouble.

“Calling anyone would just make it worse,” he says. “So, no, we don’t have any problems at home.”

The director sighs. She brushes a bit of her hair behind her ear : some strands that have escaped her ponytail holder. It’s a cute pink scrunchie.

“Yeah,” she finally says. “Do either of you want dinner? I can cook a mean curry, if you’re comfortable spending an hour at my place. I mean, I’d have to shower off and cook, but you can do some of your schoolwork or play with Kimchi until it’s time to eat.”

“Is Kimchi a dog?” Sakuya asks excitedly.

“She’s my baby kitty.”

Masumi can safely say he’s happy it’s a cat even as Sakuya wilts a little.

“I like cats, too!” Sakuya promises. He looks over at Masumi. “I’d be okay with going.”

Masumi sighs. The pork manjuu can wait until tomorrow, then. “Someone has to carry the instrument.”

The director smiles a little.

“Alright. I guess we’ll take the train to my stop. If we walk with an instrument case, it’ll take us until dark.”

“How far away do you live?” Sakuya asks. The two of them fall in step with her as she leads the way towards the station.

“Veludo Ridge! It’s only a stop east and a connecting two stops north.”

“Woah.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I can’t afford any of the real estate up there. It used to be my mom’s place, but she’s up in Hokkaido now with a few of her friends. I’ve _no_ idea what she’s thinking : going up there where the winters are hard on her arthritis. But she said ‘now take good care of that house’ over the phone and left before I even got here. Now she’s just wasting her retirement money, I swear.”

Sakuya giggles a little. Even Masumi cracks a grin. The mental image of the director on the phone with her mom, hearing an ultimatum as her mom boarded the shinkansen for Hokkaido, is pretty amusing.

Masumi hasn’t been up on that side of town until now, though. He lives a few stops down the line to the west where the properties get bigger and pricier : where his father thought would be a nice and ‘quiet’ place without disturbance. Of course, he’s never there to enjoy the quiet. It’s just Masumi in that house on the dead silent street. Every now and then, the neighbor comes and goes to get groceries.

The local tram that they take – that winds its way up alongside the mountain ridge roads – is rickety at best but also charming in its own way. He stares out the window as Veludo Station and Veludo High fade out into a background of suburb-city landscape. Sakuya flinches every time the tram shudders over a rough spot in the rails. The director has her head between her knees and looks vaguely sick.

When she spots Masumi staring, she chuckles. “I always get motion sick if I take the ride up after running. I think it’s my blood pressure or something.”

“Sorry for making you.”

She shakes her head. “I would’ve had to anyway, remember?”

Masumi blinks and remembers the case resting on his lap, slowly making his legs fall asleep. He taps his feet against the floor a little to keep them awake.

They wander out into the small ‘station’ which is really a small platform a little far from where the road turns away from the tracks. Unsteadily, the director steps down onto the sidewalk. Sakuya and Masumi follow her through the streets up the hill.

The neighborhood is surprisingly green. Although, Masumi supposes it makes sense that the people here have the money to pay for nice irrigation systems. His neighborhood does, too, but he supposes there’s a difference in the type of person who buys a house in silent nowhere and who prefers to still see city on the horizon from their windows. Half the small yards here are overflowing with plant-life, and some have gardens growing along their porch.

He’s busy staring at a porch with a bright yellow front door and a half dozen potted sunflowers – all five feet or taller – when he almost collides with the director’s back. He only barely misses.

She’s fiddling with her key ring, rifling through a bunch of silver and gold keys. Finally, she finds a clunky-looking gold key and unlocks the blue gate. Masumi looks up past the gate into the yard : similarly taken over by flowers and shrubs like the other properties. There’s a cherry tree, some morning glory bushes, whole clusters of cosmos, violets in the flowerbeds, a few spare dandelion weeds peeking out from lilies, and even some rose bushes pressed up against the side fencing.

“Come on in,” she encourages. She holds the gate open for them. “I’m afraid it’s not much. It _is_ pretty small compared to my neighbors. It’s a bit bigger inside than it looks, though!”

“Did you plant all of these?” Sakuya asks.

“Huh? Oh, some of them. Mom planted a lot, too, while I was at college. She said it felt good to take care of something once I flew the nest. We planted the cherry tree together when I was little.”

She ushers them up onto the porch, which has a nice little one-person swing on it, and through her screen-door-front-door set-up. The screen door is much older than the front door and squeaks on its rusty hinge and hits Masumi hard in the back when it tries to snap shut.

She toes off her running shoes and sits down to peel off her socks before shuffling her house slippers.

“I don’t really have guest slippers,” she apologizes. “Your socks are fine, though.”

Sakuya toes off his school shoes and steps nervously onto the hardwood of the house’s proper floor.

“Sorry for intruding,” he mumbles and looks around wide-eyed.

Masumi gets his school shoes off and steps up into the house. He mumbles the same and lugs the instrument case over to the kitchen, where the director’s wandered off.

“Where should I put this?”

“Oh, you can just set that on the floor by the table. I’ll get it after I shower. Thanks!”

Masumi awkwardly puts the case down by the table’s head chair. He hears Sakuya come in the room.

The director cracks ice into a few cups and fills them up with water from her purifying pitcher. She sets them on the coasters on the table and turns back to fill up the ice tray with the pitcher.

Masumi jumps out of his skin when he feels something ram against his ankles. As he stumbles back, a very loud and offended meow tells him he’s met Kimchi. He looks down at the girl and her bushy ginger fur and her wide hazel eyes. She’s small : must be just barely out of kittenhood.

“Kimchi!” the director scolds. “He’s a guest!” She comes over and scoops up the girl, scritching at her scruff. This seems to appease Kimchi. “Sorry, she sometimes loves guests and sometimes pretends she’s a territorial tiger with guests.”

Sakuya laughs.

The director sets Kimchi back down on the kitchen table, which strikes Masumi as odd because he thought that most pet owners don’t like their pets up on the counters or tables.

“Feel free to relax and wander around or do your homework or whatever really,” the director invites. “I gotta take a shower and change, but then I’ll start us dinner. Oh, and guest bathroom’s the first door on the right down the hall. Sound good?”

“Yeah!”

Masumi nods more slowly. “Yeah.”

She gives them a thumbs up and a smile before walking past the sun room (?) – second living room? – and disappearing down a hallway. The soft click of a door closing can be heard after a few seconds.

Sakuya slowly pulls his school bag off his shoulder and sets it down on one of the kitchen chairs. Masumi mirrors him. Kimchi eyes him as he takes a seat in the chair. He pulls out his chemistry book. She watches him. He opens his chemistry book. She comes over and sits on the page.

“Looks like you can’t do chemistry,” Sakuya jokes.

“Is this a good sign or a bad sign?”

“I think she’s playing hard to get with you.”

Masumi raises an eyebrow at Kimchi. She starts to clean her chest.

Sakuya slides into one of the seats across from Masumi. He pulls out one of his books and sets in on schoolwork. The sound of pipes squealing tells them the shower’s started. Masumi, seeing as he has a resident on his textbook, takes the chance to look about the house.

There’s an old coffee maker on the counter, along with several ceramic jars, some bottles of oils, and a spice rack close to the two-burner stove. Nearer towards the sink, a wooden drying rack and a metal drying rack rest over some paisley-patterned towels. They stand out a little off from the speckled grey countertops : granite perhaps.

There are harder to explain things, too, though. The toaster on the top of the fridge is kind of odd. So is the mini whiteboard propped up behind the sink instead of hanging from the fridge.

There’s a spongy, pink mat in front of the stove and an instant pot covered in little stickers of flowers. Her teapot is bright orange.

There’s a bunch of instrument cases littered about the tea table in the sun room : a few steps down from the kitchen. Music litters the table, too, underneath their weight. An empty bottle of wine stands uncorked. A glass rests beside it on a coaster. A few candles of different colors and presumably scents dot the windowsills.

The empty interior wall is marginally decorated with a dresser that holds the director’s bowl of keys and spare change. Her purse and schoolbag is slumped on top, too. A calendar with cat pictures stands next to them. A poster of a botanical drawing of some bush and a stylized Chatot perched on one of its branches hangs from the wall.

Kimchi yawns, distracting Masumi. It’s amazing how wide a cat’s face can split open for something as simple as a yawn. She snaps her jaws back close and licks her nose twice.

Masumi offers her his hand, and she rubs against it happily, seemingly having forgotten her spat just a few minutes earlier.

“I think she likes you.”

Sakuya’s peeked up from his homework and smiles and the two of them. Masumi huffs and tries not to feel too proud about winning over the director’s cat.

The water to the shower shuts off. The pipes shudder.

Masumi has the very sudden realization that he’s not as excited as he should be about being in the director’s home. This is what he’s wanted, he thought, for a few months now. And yet he’s been too busy wondering about stickers on instant pots and cats on chemistry books. It’s an unsettling realization.

It stays with him – churning in his gut – when the director steps out from the hallway in some fuzzy socks, house shorts, and a lightweight shawl over a tank top : hair damp. This should be _exciting_ , he thinks to himself, but it feels nothing close to that. Instead he wants to ask if he can help with dinner. He’s never helped with dinner before.

“How are you two doing?” she asks as she lights a few of her candles along the windowsill. Their flames flicker and dance, reflecting off the glass rim haloing their wicks.

“Chemistry’s hard,” Sakuya replies. “It takes a lot of work to get through our assignments.”

“Yeah, I remember how brutal it used to be. Only vaguely now, but I remember. Oh, Masumi, is Kimchi bothering you?”

Masumi glances at Kimchi. She’s situated herself so she’s laying across the whole book now.

“She’s fine,” he answers. He pets her stomach, and a small rumble under his fingers tells him she’s started to purr.

Dinner goes… nicely. The director chats with them about their day at school as she chops up ginger and garlic and scallion and grinds up the Sichuan peppercorn and black peppercorn. She foregoes the curry idea and offers to make them a hot pot as a sort of welcoming gift. Privately, Masumi wonders if it’s not way too hot for a spicy hot pot, but he’s not about to stop her from cooking what she’s in the mood for.

For her part, the hot pot smells fantastic as she makes it, cooking the peppercorns and herbs in oil before transferring them to the pot with the soup base and filling it with boiling water from the kettle. It’s at that point that Masumi insists on helping, and he learns how to wash bok choy and open a kabocha and rinse rice cakes and slice chilled pork belly into strips.

Sakuya enthusiastically joins in to prep zucchini and the mushrooms. The director mixes the dipping sauces as she keeps an eye on Masumi’s first attempts with a butcher knife. It’s not the fastest he’s learned a new skill, but he manages to avoid embarrassing himself.

He learns that the director’s a huge fan of different types of iced tea and invites them to try the different bottles she has in her fridge : elderberry and juniper, earl grey with blue spirulina, sage tea with fresh lemon slices. He also learns that Sakuya is allergic to raspberries but not any other kind of berry.

Dinner is fun, in a word. They stare at the pot, sometimes sleepy and sometimes enthusiastic, cooking their meats and vegetables and rice cakes. They talk about all sorts of things then : but mostly band.

The director explains that the instrument they lugged all this way is a mountain dulcimer : an instrument from the Appalachia of the United States that she’s been dying to try playing but never could justify the purchase until she found a rental website willing to ship through their local music store. Apparently, it’s a string instrument that one plays with little mallets to hit the strings with, then vibrate with the fingertips. It sounds like a lot of work to Masumi. He has a newfound gratefulness for the three trumpet keys and the easy-to-navigate mouthpiece.

They soon figure out what they each like from the pile of ingredients and split them up a little to each person’s favor. The director gets more of the rice cakes, and Masumi claims more of the pork belly. Sakuya cooks over half the shiitake for himself.

They add udon noodles towards the end even when their stomachs are full. Those disappear much more slowly from the bubbling broth. They finish with little fried donuts until they all agree they can’t fit anymore, and the director wraps up the rest for later.

But the weird feeling in Masumi’s stomach still doesn’t go away entirely. Not when they move to the living room back in the front of the house and laze about : the director on one end of the couch and Masumi on the other while Sakuya lays down with the floor pillows. Not when they listen to a movie while Sakuya reads their book for literature tomorrow. Not when Kimchi sits down to nap on Sakuya’s back.

“Director,” he says. She looks up from her phone to him. “Can… we talk?”

“Sure. Is here good?”

It’s not, but Masumi doesn’t want Sakuya to think he’s not allowed to hear. Well, truthfully Sakuya _isn't_ allowed to hear because this is confusing, and something tells Masumi that he should be ashamed. But he doesn’t want to hurt Sakuya’s feelings while conveying that he can’t hear what Masumi wants to say.

“Is… the kitchen okay?”

The director’s lips fall just a little into a frown, but she nods nonetheless. “Alright! Lead the way.”

They move themselves into the kitchen in a weird shuffle, and Masumi catches the worried look Sakuya throws them as they leave him behind. They take their old seats around the hot pot, still cooling down so that the director can freeze it in her spare ice cube tray for leftovers.

“So,” she leans on her elbows, “what’s up?”

Masumi can’t relax in the slightest. He sits stiff like a board in his chair.

“I think I liked you.” He sees her bite her lip. “But I don’t think I do anymore. And I don’t know how to feel about it.”

She breathes in deeply and slowly nods. “Okay,” she says. “It’s pretty common for boys your age to like your women teachers. I get it.”

“But I don’t anymore,” Masumi stresses. How doesn’t this bother her? “I don’t know what to do.”

“What to do?” she repeats. “Do you want to like me again?”

“Yes? No?”

She waits for him to explain further.

“I feel comfortable with you. Like… warm. I feel warm. But now someone else makes me feel hot. Is there something wrong with me?”

“I don’t think there’s anything _wrong_ with you, Masumi-kun. Maybe you just got over your crush but still like me plenty as your teacher.”

“But I feel hot around someone else,” Masumi stresses like a begging man. He thinks about how _hot_ he feels when Sakuya’s talking about Banri or Juza or Taichi or even _Omi_. “Isn’t that bad? Does that mean I’m disloyal?”

She surprises him by chuckling a little. “No, you’re not disloyal or anything like that. If I can be honest, I was a little worried about having any of my students ‘like’ me, if we’ll put it that way. Having you move on is doing me a huge favor, really.”

“How?”

A new fear is settling into Masumi. Does she not want him around at all? Was this all just to be nice? Is he not welcome back? He wants to come back.

“Well, it just doesn’t look good for that teacher sometimes,” she shrugs. “It’s politics, mostly, but it can be… awkward, we’ll say, sometimes.”

“Did I get you in trouble?”

“Huh? Oh, no. No, I was just talking about, you know, a bit into the future. Even if a teacher isn’t pursuing a student, it still looks bad if they don’t openly turn the student down. And that would just be really, really awkward.”

“But I don’t know why I feel like this.”

“Have you talked about this with anyone else? What about your parents?”

Masumi swallows. “They’re away.”

“Always?”

He nods. Something changes in the director’s expression.

“Do you miss them?”

“No.”

“Not a little?”

“I don’t like my parents.”

The director nods. “Do you wish you had better parents?”

Masumi hesitates. He’s not sure if he does. “Better parents?” he asks.

“Do you think you’d be happier if someone else was your mom? Or your dad? And they stayed home with you and helped you with your homework and ate dinner with you?”

He doesn’t know what that would be like. Would it be like tonight? Tonight was fun. He wants to do it again. He liked helping her in the kitchen and bumping hands with Sakuya as they reached for the spicy side of the pot at the same time. He likes Kimchi’s presence and the smell of the director’s candles. He even likes the weird googly eyes on the guest bathroom’s soap dispenser.

“I don’t know.”

“Okay. What about this other person that makes you feel... uh,” she clears her throat quietly, “hot, you said?”

Masumi glances into the living room. He’d die if Sakuya overheard this.

Of course, this one movement seems to key the director in to exactly what he’s thinking.

“I see,” she muses. “What do you think the differences are? Between me and him.”

“I,” he hesitates. “He’s… I don’t know. I like when both of you pay attention to me. I want you to keep paying attention to me. But one feels warm, and one feels hot.”

“Okay. What do you want from me right now?”

“More of this,” he immediately blurts. “I wanna do this every day. I want you to keep bringing bentou to school for me to eat at lunch.”

“Do you want that from him?” Masumi shakes his head. “What do you think you want from him?”

What indeed.

“Eat lunch together,” he answers hesitantly. He thinks about their conversation earlier in the music store. “I guess… I wouldn’t mind if someone joins us. But I don’t want them to steal him. But… if they don’t… then I guess going out for shaved ice wouldn’t be bad.”

“What do you think the difference is?”

Masumi’s cheeks burn. There’s the heat again : so very different from the peppercorns and chili oil that the director cooks but just as hot.

“I,” he struggles to admit it aloud, “like him.”

The director nods approvingly. That’s a nice feeling, Masumi realizes. He likes this approval. Is this what a mom’s like? In band, a little while back, Banri had snapped at Juza for having a supportive home. Is Juza’s mom warm and approving? Does she make her son lunch and feed him dinner? Does she get worried when he comes home late? Masumi wants the director to do that for him.

“I think I want you as a mom,” he says it the instant he fully comes to terms with the idea. He looks up at her. “Would you?”

“Be your mom?” the director asks. He nods. “Well. I’m not… I don’t _legally_ have any say in the matter, and you don’t really either, I’m afraid. And there’s a lot of trouble that could come my way about letting students stay at my place. A lot of rumors could spread.”

“I’d defend you.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m afraid that’s not going to do very much.” She sighs. “But I also hate the idea of having you go home to an empty house every night. Every night?” He nods, and she sighs again. “That’s a safety risk, too.”

He waits as she debates with herself over the idea.

“Give me some time to think about it. I know there are others in the band who could use a safe space, too. I guess… I wouldn’t be opposed to keeping my door open. I’ll give you lessons for band, too. And if you want to spend the night in the guest bedroom… I guess that’s fine.”

“Can I stay here on the weekends?”

“I… You will need your three meals of the day, I suppose.”

“Can I come with you shopping?”

“… If you want.”

Masumi sits back in his chair. “I don’t know what else people do with their parents. Should we go to the zoo?”

This prompts a laugh from her : the first one in a while.

“We’ll take things slow, okay? Just. Masumi-kun, _promise me_ you’re telling me the truth? There's no crush anymore?”

“None,” he swears. And he’s telling the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> izumi is trying v v hard to make sure she's not about to make herself liable for a lawsuit by giving her band kids a home to eat and sleep in. uhh i kinda based her neighborhood off mine? i live on less than 1k/mo lol but all my neighbors have these rich ass places around my studio. even in the desert, everyone has full on gardens and seems to have pissing contests abt who has the nicest cacti or the best-irrigated shrubs. i kinda like the idea for izumi tho... having a bunch of flowers around her. her homes way bigger than mine tho...
> 
> this is another chapter that got way longer than i originally was expecting, so it's now two chapters ^^; the juban gets resolved NEXT chapter i promise hgfhgk


	17. love, effort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> banri makes his amends and starts to understand the meaning of true effort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember... remember when banri... listened in on juza + natsugumi talking abt kumon... bc he wanted a place in the matter too... and he heard juza was gonna learn kumons lines... and banri butted in and tried to assert that he'd do it instead... and juza said it wasn't his business... and banri snitted at him for trying to exclude him from the 'family'... and then argued his way into being kumons support... and juza thanked him... im going to die banri found the family he wanted to be in and said "kay this is my family now no take backs" without asking permission
> 
> tw // f slur

Was anmitsu always this hard to make? It’s just some jello and mochi and fruit and ice cream and a giant pain in the ass. The jello’s finished. That’s finished. It’s in the fridge, and it’s finished. And the flour. In the bowl. Will. Not. Form. A. Ball.

Banri adds more water for the hundredth time. He tries balling up the flour again. It crumbles under his fingertips as he pulls it apart to knead. He is _so close_ to throwing the bowl against the wall and calling it quits. He bites back a scream and adds more water.

He’s adding even _more_ water to the bowl when the lights flick on. It startles him enough that he manages to shove the bowl back off the counter ledge, where it lands in a giant mess in the sink. Banri winces at the crash. Hyodo’s going to kill him.

He takes in a deep breath and turns to meet his fate. He’s instead met with the image of Hyodo’s mom in her bathrobe, hair frizzy with sleep and eyes wide in surprise.

“Banri-kun?” she asks.

“Uh.” Banri really wishes it was Hyodo instead. “Um. Hi, Ms. Hyodo. It’s, uh, me.”

Hyodo’s mom rests a hand on her heart like Banri’s given her the fright of her life. He probably has. “My… My goodness, what are you- how did you get i- Did Juza let you in?”

“Uh, no.” This looks really bad. “I kind of. Broke in?”

She blinks. “Are our locks that easy to pick?”

“Kinda.”

He’s half expecting her to throw him out. Hyodo’s probably mentioned at some point their fights, and she hasn’t seen him in years. Plus, picking locks to break into your former best friend’s house at midnight isn’t courteous, to say the least.

But all she does is move further into the kitchen and scoop him up in a big hug : or, well, the biggest hug a little woman like her can manage to give. It’s a weird feeling. He remembers being short enough that he only came up to her shoulder. In fact, he hasn’t been this close to her since then. He awkwardly raises his arms up and hugs her back.

“It’s so good to see you,” she hums into his shoulder. “I know Juza and I ran into you in the street a few months ago, but we were so busy because of Hitomi’s birthday, and we couldn’t say hi, and, really, I felt so bad, but then your parents called to say you wouldn’t be around, and I assumed you were grounded, and I didn’t want to make a fuss for you at home, so I-”

“Really, Ms. H. It’s fine. It’s good to see you again, too.”

She lets go of Banri and backs up a bit : looks him over up and down with the critical eye of a mother. “You’ve gotten strong,” she praises and pinches at a bicep. “My goodness, I remember when you were such a scraggly little thing.”

He laughs. “A lot’s happened. I can bench like one-forty.”

“Is that a lot?”

“It’s a fair amount.”

She laughs. “It’s so good to see you after all this time. But,” she glances at the sink, “I _must_ ask what you’re doing in my kitchen at midnight, young man.”

“Ah, yeah, well,” Banri rubs at his neck a little, “I was kinda trying to make something for your eldest.”

“Is that… flour?”

“Yeah. Wanted to make some anmitsu, but I was having some trouble.”

She giggles. “Well, of course, honey, but that’s not mochi flour.” Banri turns back to the packaging in a panic. “That’s cake flour. Our old bag broke, and our container didn’t fit all of it, so we put the mochi flour in a can and put the cake flour in that.”

Banri covers his face with a hand and composes himself a moment before barking out a quiet laugh. “You really run your kitchen in weird ways, Ms. H. Sorry about the mess. I got it.”

“No, no, I have that under control. Here, I’ll get you the correct flour, and you can keep at it with the mochi.”

She brushes over to the cabinet over the fridge and starts to drag a chair over before Banri stops her. He picks it up right off the shelf.

They manage to work together in the kitchen pretty well. She does the dishes, humming a little tune as if it isn’t midnight on a Tuesday – now Wednesday – and he boils the mochi to get it cooked and soft. She helps to slice up the fruit, informs Banri that Juza’s fallen out of liking the flavor of kiwi and suggests that they add more strawberry.

There’s just about finishing up making the matcha ice cream when she goes full Mom Mode on him.

“So,” she starts and wipes a bit of the milk off Banri’s hands with a towel as he pauses stirring for her. “I heard you got yourself into some trouble at that private school of yours.” Banri hesitates but nods. It’s not a guilty admission until he has to admit it to her. “You wanna talk about it?”

He takes his time with it. She’s not the type to push. “I don’t really know what to say,” he says. “I just hated it there.”

“How so?”

He shrugs and sets the whisk down in the sink. She turns the water back on and starts washing.

“I dunno. Just kinda got tired of all the pressure to… always do all the homework and do it right and do all the problems on the test right, y’know? It’s not like I get bad grades on my tests if I skip the homework. Homework doesn’t help much, actually. I mean. How is writing the same kanji ten times and organizing them alphabetically going to help me remember them on the test? My head doesn’t work like that. I see it, and I remember it. Y’know?”

“I think that homework’s there for the other students,” she replies wisely.

“Yeah, yeah, I get that. But why do _I_ have to spend my time on it, then? I don’t know. Then, after a while, trying to do everything at once, even when there’s so much to do… I dunno. It’s like burnout? I just didn’t _want_ to do anything anymore.

“Then I realized that some of the other kids were getting into other stuff instead of their studies. And I figured ‘why not,’ y’know? I tried that. Got into some stuff. And then I got busted because Harada fucking sold me out.” He freezes. “Uh, I mean, a classmate, uh, told on me.”

Hyodo’s mom stands quietly at the sink watching him carefully. Banri feels a little embarrassed. He hadn’t meant to spill all that for her. It’s not her business, anyways. She shouldn’t have to put up with someone else’s kid.

She offers him a sad smile. “You’re just bored, aren’t you?”

It’s a little eerie that she can read him so well. He supposes that’s what good moms do, though.

“Yeah, I guess. Yeah.”

“You know. Things are set up for some people more than others. School, the business world, the government. And people aren’t good at understanding that not everyone fits that mold. Some people end up behind for their entire lives. Some people get so far ahead, and some go back and forth between the two. And that’s not their fault.”

“Sure, but-”

“I think,” she rests a hand on his shoulder, “that, above all, you should just try to do what you want, and get done the things that need to get done in order to do the things you want.” She pats him gently. “I know you wanna reconnect with my boys. Juza doesn’t tell me much, bless his heart, but I’ve been around the block long enough to know how you two work.” Banri feels like he’s been lit on _fire_. “Maybe a first step to getting there is to be a support for him more than an adversary?”

The smile she gives him is so knowing. Banri wants the floor to eat him up.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I… didn’t know how else to go about it. Didn’t realize you guys blew me off that day because you were running late to Hitomi’s party. I got angry, I guess.”

“I know,” she forgives. “He’ll be embarrassed to know you came over to make him this, you know. He’ll get all blushy.” Banri suddenly wishes she’d stop talking. It’s not like _that_. “I’ll be sure to get the anmitsu all ready in the morning and tell him it’s from you.”

“Thanks.”

“Unless you want to stay the night? Your mother called yesterday, asking if you’d been staying here. I told her ‘yes’ just so that you wouldn’t get into trouble for running away.”

He swallows. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t- I didn’t wanna get you caught up in this. Hyodo didn’t either. He, uh, let me in a few nights and made me promise not to wake you or Kumon.”

“I know,” she laughs. “I woke up when I heard the shower running. But I know Juza was trying to be mindful of me, so I didn’t come out to see you. Also, I’m pretty sure you were using the laundry machine, so I didn’t wanna catch you undressed.”

“Yeah, smart.”

She pats him on the back one last time. “Alright, then. You’re free to steal some of Juza’s clothes. If he gives you trouble, just let him know that I gave you my express permission. You can do the laundry in the morning before school. For now, let’s get ourselves to bed.”

Banri nods and throws the ice cream into the freezer. They wipe down the counters, pile the rags up by the sink, and file out of the kitchen : Banri turning off the lights as they leave.

She leads them up to Hyodo’s bedroom on quiet, slippered feet, and softly knocks at the door before opening. Banri walks through and finds Hyodo sitting up in bed, tugging on a pair of socks.

Hyodo glares at him. “The hell-” He cuts off abruptly upon seeing his mom holding the door open. “Mom! Uh, what are you doing awake?”

“Making a little surprise with Banri-kun,” she hums and enters the room behind Banri. Hyodo narrows his eyes. “I told him he’s welcome to stay the night. You don’t mind lending him some of your clothes, do you?”

Hyodo has nothing else he can say other than, “Yeah, that’s fine.” Banri smirks.

“Great. I’ll leave you two alone, then. Don’t forget to set an alarm for the morning. Juza, I want you to take care of Banri-kun’s uniform in the morning. Washer and dryer. Then, you both can have breakfast.”

Hyodo nods awkwardly and gets up. His mom whispers a goodnight to them both and slips back out the door, closing it behind her with a soft click.

Banri grins. “Guess you’re stuck with me, huh?”

“Told you to leave her the hell out of this.”

“I was being quiet, okay? She came and found me. Said she heard us the other nights, too, but didn’t wanna worry you.”

Hyodo winces, and Banri refrains from rolling his eyes. Their family is so overly-considerate of each other’s feelings, it’s ridiculous.

Hyodo throws him a hoodie and pair of boxers from his dresser. “Just put those on. I’ll get the futon.”

“Dude no.”

“You’re not still scared of bugs, are ya?”

“I’m not _scared_ ,” Banri snaps. He tugs off his clothes and laughs when Hyodo abruptly turns around. As if Hyodo hasn’t seen him in the locker room at school. “I just think they’re disgusting. Case being : we’re still sharing the bed. Unless you wanna sleep on the futon.”

“Fuck you, it’s my house. I ain’t sleeping on a futon in my own house.”

“Then share the bed, idiot.” Banri tugs on the fresh pair of boxers and grimaces. “Oh, dude, these cling in the worst place possible.” He tries to tug the fabric away from his goods. “How do you wear these? Is this poly-fucking-ester? For _boxers_?”

“‘Least I don’t wear leopard print.”

“Got a problem?”

“Yeah, a big one. Hurry up and get in bed. They aren’t that uncomfortable.”

Banri snorts. The opportunity’s there, and he is _so_ taking it. “I must be a lot bigger than you then, because these-”

He’s taken out with a pillow to the head.

“Shut up.”

Banri snickers. “You set yourself up, dude. That was not all on me.”

Hyodo declines to continue the bickering any further and just folds himself back into his covers : reaches for the retainer on his nightstand. Banri slips under the covers on the other side of the bed. The ceiling fan above them swirls lazily.

The pillow smells like childhood.

Banri wets his lips. “I’m sorry,” he manages to say. “I’m sorry for… a lot. I shouldn’t have flipped today. I was hot, and I wasn’t thinking, but it was on me.” Something squirms in his gut. “And I’m sorry for what I said… last week. About the,” he clears his throat, “you know.”

“Callin’ me a fag?”

Banri wants to die. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I’m sorry for that.”

“Ya need to do more than jusht shay it.”

“I know.”

“I ain’t forgiven you yet.”

“I know, asshole.”

Waking up in Hyodo’s bed, after three long years of waking up in Kousaki’s dorms and the past few months of park benches, feels like he’s finally come home. At first, Banri doesn’t even open his eyes. He’s aware that Hyodo has a hand on his shoulder and is trying to wake him, but he buries his face in the pillows that smell like a mixture of Hyodo’s mom’s detergent, Hyodo’s scent, and Hyodo’s shampoo. He groans and stretches out underneath the covers before curling up into a ball.

The hand on his shoulder shakes him a little more roughly. He groans and turns his back to the hand. It lands on his other shoulder instead.

“Settsu,” Hyodo says for what must be the tenth time. “Get up already.”

“Shu’up,” Banri mumbles. He curls into a particularly inviting mound of blankets. “Wanna sleep. Come back, ‘s’cold.”

The covers lift, and, for a moment, Banri uncurls a little from the blankets to adjust to what he _assumes_ will be Hyodo joining him on the bed. Instead the rest of the covers are yanked off. The freezing air of the bedroom hits him all at once, and he shoots up off the mattress.

“Fuck!” he makes a mad grab for the comforter, but Hyodo tugs it further off. “Fuck you! It’s fucking freezing in here!”

“Should’ve been up thirty minutes ago,” Hyodo retorts. “I started your laundry, but I ain’t throwing it in the dryer. Do that yourself.”

Banri snatches the pajama shirt Hyodo had on last night and pulls it on overtop the other shirt of Hyodo’s that he’s wearing. It doesn’t help to warm up his bare legs, but he can worry about that later. He goes to get up. And then he stops because, damn, he had forgotten how uncomfortable these stupid polyester boxers are.

“Hyodo, tell me you got other boxers.”

“Huh?”

“These are literally pilling right at my balls. Tell me you have _something_ that’s cotton.”

Hyodo goes to the dresser and throws him a looser and cotton pair of boxers. “Shut up. Not my fault you wanted to wear my shit.”

“Wasn’t my idea. Blame your mom for that.” Banri notices that Hyodo’s face has gone red in embarrassment. He laughs. “Don’t act gay just because I’m wearing your boxers.”

Hyodo scowls. “ _I_ ain’t the one asking you to get back in bed with me.”

“I was still asleep, dipshit. I didn’t know who the fuck I was taking to.”

“Yeah right.”

There’s a knock on the door. They both pause in their argument and wait.

“Juza? Banri-kun?” Hyodo’s mom hesitates. “Are you both decent?”

“Yes, Mom!”

Hyodo’s mom opens the door and brushes into the bedroom without an ounce of hesitation. Banri discreetly tries to lower the hoodie over his crotch. He’s not exactly keen on her seeing the last remnants of his morning wood. On her part, she barely spares either of them a glance in favor of looking around the bedroom.

“Haven’t been in here in a hot jiffy!” she exclaims. Banri bites his tongue. “Juza, you should play music on that record player of yours more often. I keep forgetting you have it at all.”

Juza shifts where he stands. “Don’t wanna make too much noise.” The ‘don’t wanna be a bother’ is left unsaid.

Her expression softens, but she lets it end there. Instead, she moves over to Hyodo’s closet. “Honey, you have your winter uniform in here somewhere, right? I don’t think Banri-kun’s clothes are going to be ready in time.”

“That’s okay, Ms. H. I can go in late.”

“No you don’t, young man! Education is important.” She pulls out Hyodo’s winter sweater for Mankai High. “Here! You have some button-ups, too, right? I know you don’t wear them very often but,” she goes through the hangers one-by-one.

“There’re folded on the top shelf, Mom.”

She glances up and realizes that she can’t reach. “Oh, well, one of you two can grab a shirt. It’s going to be another hot one today, but I’m sure you can find a cooler blazer to wear once you get to school. Oh, and breakfast’s ready! I wanna make sure you eat a good meal before you leave with my boy.”

“… Right.”

“Great!” And she’s out the door and tottering down the hall.

Banri remembers the anmitsu and risks a glance at Hyodo. “Did you eat yet?”

Predictably, Hyodo’s eyebrows do that ugly scowl thing they do whenever he gets embarrassed. Hyodo turns a little away.

“… Yeah, mom gave it to me.”

Maybe she was right, Banri thinks, when she said that Hyodo would get all blushy over something stupid like homemade anmitsu.

“Cool,” Banri says, expertly ignoring the heat in his palms. “I, uh, know it’s not gonna fix anything between us or anything like that, but, uh, I also got you some of those macarons ya like.” He’ll mention Tsumugi’s financial contributions at a later date.

“Where?”

“No way. You’ll just eat them right now without stopping to enjoy them.” Hyodo glares at him. “You can wait a day or two!”

“Fine. Get ready faster.”

“Shut up, it’s not my fault your boxers suck.”

They end up getting downstairs ten minutes later after a very long struggle over the sink involving Hyodo’s hairbrush, two toothbrushes, and the mouthwash. Banri bemoans having to use Kumon’s earring disinfectant instead of a fresh bottle. Hyodo watches him a little funny when Banri takes out his earrings to do a quick clean : asks Banri when he got them.

As Banri swings for the kitchen to grab a piece of toast to eat on the way, Kumon comes running out. He passes Banri right by and hugs his brother, lingering on the last step, before sending Banri an impressive death-glare. Banri pauses mid-step. Kumon runs for the shoe rack.

“What’s up with him?”

Hyodo shrugs. “Thinks you’re bullying me. Took some of what I said the wrong way. Don’t know how to correct him.”

What had Hyodo been saying about him? And to his family, at that?

“Don’t worry about him. I’ll… talk with him at some point.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine. Kinda weird though. He grew up.”

“Yeah.”

Banri doesn’t go to find Hyodo at lunch. Instead, he lets Sakuya come over with his usual drink from the downstairs vending machine. Except today Sakuya has a bentou, too, which Banri raises an eyebrow at. Even stranger, Masumi joins them with his own bentou. He figures it’s their lives and their lunches, though, so he doesn’t question the matching furoshiki.

It’s not too weird, in the end. Banri wasn’t expecting Masumi to make much talk, and he doesn’t. There’s something up between him and Sakuya, though. They swap apples for banana slices and talk a little between themselves about leftover hotpot for dinner. Banri feels like he’s missing something.

“You two like… staying at each other’s places or somethin’?”

“Oh! Um. Yeah, something like that!”

This does nothing to illuminate things for Banri. If anything, that just sounds shifty as hell. But he supposes breaking into your childhood friend’s place is pretty shifty, too, so he keeps his comments to himself.

They go to band together after the final bell, too. Banri gets to suffer the humiliation of Tsumugi and Itaru eyeing him as he enters with his company. Clearly, they’re going to want to talk to him about yesterday’s scene. Mikage throws Banri a pretty dirty look from the clarinet shelves. _That_ , Banri thinks, is a little uncalled for. As a third-year, shouldn’t the guy be a little more patient with his juniors?

But Hyodo doesn’t act any different. He brushes by with Taichi on his heels and only spares a glance to Banri as he meets up with Mikage.

Misumi pops his head in the door.

“Um.”

Tsumugi looks up to the door. “Misumi-kun! You can come in, if you’d like.”

Misumi only barely slides around the doorframe to stand inside the room. “Director said group meeting.”

“Oh, okay! Thanks for letting us know.”

Misumi nods once and immediately flees. Banri hides a scoff ; there’s quite literally no point of being scared of shadows in this kind of club. Banri grabs his flute case off the rack.

“How are you feeling?” Tsumugi asks him quietly as he picks up his own. “I know yesterday was rough.

Really, Tsumugi doesn’t have to be this nice to him. “We made up,” Banri answers, words easily hidden by the noise of Taichi and Sakuya enthusing to each other about something in the corner. “I, uh, made him some anmitsu.”

“That’s a start. Did you apologize?”

“Yeah.”

“Like actually apologize?” Itaru snarks.

“Yeah, yeah, I did.”

Something heavy hits Banri in the back, and he huffs out a rush of air. It’s Hyodo, he finds out after turning around. Or rather, it’s Hyodo’s clarinet case : thrown into his spine.

“The hell?”

“Didn’t ya hear Ikaruga-san? Meeting.”

“I _know_ that, you asshole. Don’t throw your case at me.”

“Come on.”

“Alright! I’m coming.”

Tsumugi takes pity on Banri and follows him close out the door. Itaru lingers behind, which Banri thinks is a little odd, but he doesn’t care too much about whatever game Itaru’s probably day-dreaming about. Or this could be another thirty seconds to open up one last game before band club steals him from his phone.

“Ah!” Tsumugi exclaims as they almost walk into Tasuku on the way out. “Tasuku, sorr- Azuma-san?”

Banri glances over his shoulder. Some guy with long white hair stands just a little behind Tasuku : just far back enough that Banri hadn’t noticed him until now.

“Sorry for intruding into your club,” the guy says. “Tasuku asked if I’d want to tag along for a day to see what it’s like now that you have a nice director and some clubmates.”

“Oh! Yeah, it’s been a while since you’ve visited, hasn’t it?”

Tsumugi’s voice sounds a little odd in Banri’s ears. He wonders who this ‘Azuma’ guy is. But then Hyodo hits him again with the clarinet case.

“Are you coming or what?”

Banri hits him right back with his flute case. “I _said_ I’m coming. What are you, Kumon?”

Hyodo snorts and continues walking.

The director looks tired today, Banri notices. He should probably apologize to her at some point today, he figures. He doesn’t want her to think he doesn’t know he was in the wrong yesterday. She doesn’t seem to be holding a grudge, though. She waves them in with a smile, clutching her water bottle.

Banri sets his music down on the stand and leans back in his chair : listens to the ambient noise of Hyodo fiddling with his case behind him.

The director’s got a box on her desk, which is pretty interesting. It’s not every day they get handed out new stuff. They’re due for a new practice book, though. Banri would bet money that it’s Book 2 for all of them.

He hoists himself up from his seat and leaves his case down behind him.

“Can I help?” he asks her, sidling up.

“Huh? Oh, Banri-kun. Of course! I was thinking to put them in piles by instrument. Can you double-check the numbers for me, too? There should be one extra per section.”

“Yeah, no problem.” He lifts a stack out of the box and rifles through. He starts in on the flute pile. “I, uh. I’m sorry ‘bout yesterday, by the way. That was out of line, I know.”

“I accept your apology,” she nods seriously, “but I think someone else might need it a little more than me.”

“Ah, yeah.” There’s the embarrassment again. “Hyodo and I already talked about it. We’re good.”

“I hope so. He’s a very kind person, you know.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s hard to find people like that.”

“Yeah,” Banri sighs, “I know.”

“Alright! I’m not trying to push.”

“Says the one pushing.”

She chuckles a little and lifts the last stack out of the box : places the box down on the floor to give them more workspace. Banri takes the clarinet books from the top. The director separates the trombones and euphonium, and he looks down at the artsy photograph along the side of the clarinet covers.

“Actually, Director.”

“Hm?”

“Can I take the extra clarinet book for myself?”

“Huh?” She blinks up in surprise. “Sure, I suppose, but what are you going to do with it?”

“We have another clarinet in storage, right?”

“Um, yeah, but it’s a little different from the rest of them.”

“Will it work with this book?”

The director’s watching him with a particularly judging expression : not harsh, but she’s clearly thinking about something. At length, she pulls away from the table and moves back towards her desk. She grabs a sticky note pad.

“You wanna help Juza-kun, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I mean... yeah, that’s the idea.”

She smiles and writes something down. “How about I bring in my clarinet for you? It’s a little expensive, so maybe we can work out how long you can keep it for, but it’ll work with your practice books. Since the clarinet in storage won’t work the same.”

“You… sure about that?”

“You’re progressing well with your lessons, so I don’t see a reason why not. Just don’t fall behind on the flute, okay? If you stay on flute and keep working hard in your sectionals, I’ll give you clarinet lessons during lunch or after band, if you’d like.”

That’s incredibly kind of her. So, Banri dips his head a little – just to show some respect – when he thanks her. She takes the extra clarinet book from his hands and sets it on her desk to reserve.

Later, once the announcement’s out for their new books and the different sections crowd the table to snatch their copies and split off into sectionals, Omi mentions the lack of an extra for the clarinets. Banri’s only just leaving the room behind Itaru when he hears the director drop the news that she’s saving the last one for him. He won’t look back, but he wonders what Hyodo’s face must look like : hearing that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hitomi is sakisaka hitomi, muku's big sis!


	18. glass, crane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> azuma joins band, hisohomatsumu go to a cafe and talk, tsumugi gets a summer cold, and itaru meets chikage by the arcade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the semi-long pause before updating!! this semester's even busier than last sem ;-; i have lots of reading and writing to do every week, plus my research (hopefully summer and fall are easier...) i feel like i should warn that my chapters might take a bit this sem and next spring (if the fic takes that long). in the meantime, though, i have a lot planned out already for this fic!! thanks so much for all your patience omg
> 
> tw // mentions of stalking, (sexual) harassment

The whispers of shoe lockers doors and music stands squeaking hang in the humid air. Music sheets rustle : the fluttering of harmonies like a whole flock testing their feathers before flight. A clarinet hums its way through a warm-up scale. The cool sound – refreshing, almost – of the triangle tings happily in the air.

Tsumugi’s hands flit through pages of music : of 'Syrinx,' Itaru notices. A cool breeze travels in from the windows. The percussionists share a giggle. A bird sings from a branch outside their windows – a loud _ko-kokekkyo!_ – and competes in volume even with Banri’s flute. Soon, the bird and Banri begin a sing-off : _ko-kokekkyo!_ back and forth.

In the hallway, someone’s using the water fountain to clean their mouthpiece.

Itaru lifts his own flute to his lips and works his way through the first few measures of ‘Title Theme’ from _Ocarina of Time_. Such a familiar tune is comforting to pass the time with.

Tsumugi’s eyes lift from his sheet music at the sound of Itaru’s flute, and he smiles encouragingly even though he himself seems mildly nervous. Itaru lowers his flute.

“You look nervous.”

“Do I?” Tsumugi asks. He turns back to his sheet music and knocks it a little on the stand base to get the pages together neatly. “I’ve been feeling a little off today.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Just tired, I think.”

“Such a cute little face shouldn’t be worn down with weariness.”

Tsumugi startles, evidently not having noticed Azuma coming up behind him. “Azuma-san! I didn’t realize you were done speaking with the Director.”

Azuma pulls up one of the empty first row chairs that, in a bigger band, would be the chair of another flute or even a piccolo or oboe. He sets it up next to Tsumugi, and Itaru eyes the ever-slight way Tsumugi’s hands shake on his instrument : down in his lap where it’s hard to notice.

“I was kindly accepted into the band,” Azuma smiles. “I’ll be joining Tasuku in the saxophone section.”

“That’s great to hear! Tasuku will be a fantastic teacher. I’m sure you’ll have caught up with the rest of the band in no time.”

“So I hear,” Azuma purrs. He catches Itaru’s eye and winks. Itaru merely blinks back. “Though, I’m a little sad I couldn’t join the trombones. I didn’t realize you had added such a cutie back there with Sakyo-san.”

 _Guy_ a _cutie_ , Itaru wonders in a mild panic. He peeks back through the clarinets at the trombones, where Guy sits deadpanning at his music in silence. Sakyo isn’t much different. Itaru wonders if it’s possible to accidentally stare too hard at your music that your eyes become glued to the pages.

He catches sight of Guy moving his foot slightly and relaxes that he hasn’t completely turned to stone. Still, though, Itaru can’t figure out where Azuma got ‘cutie’ from : hot, sure, but cute?

“Sakyo-san would have been a good choice, too,” Tsumugi says, though the tone of it sounds a little off.

“Of course,” Azuma leans in close to Tsumugi, prompting an odd bolt of insecurity in Itaru. “Tasuku’s the cutest in band.”

“I.” Itaru does not like the sound of that hesitation. “I suppose.”

Homare folds down the pleats of his pants one last time before he resigns himself to resting his wrists delicately on the table. The pleats are positively obnoxious ; he’s ironed them too heavily. But his worries of the way his clothes feel will simply have to wait if Tsumugi is in shambles across from him.

Really, the moment that Azuma had entered the band, he and Hisoka had known it would come to this. And, sure enough, all that sits in the chair across from him is a broken pile of misplaced content, too-hopeful trust, and unrealistic dependency. Because _really_ , Tsumugi should have known that Tasuku would not wait for him forever.

Hisoka comes back with their drinks, and Tsumugi only slightly moves the cool cup closer to him on the table.

Hisoka sets right in on his marshmallow slurpie – an absolutely atrocious choice of beverage – and Homare lightly sips at his iced London Fog : a true delicacy.

“How are Chigasaki-kun and Banri-kun advancing on the flute?” Homare asks to break some of the foggy disappointment clouding Tsumugi’s chair.

Tsumugi blinks a little as he processes the question.

“Oh, they’re both doing well. Banri-kun is… well, it’s hard to say that he’s not a natural. I know he dislikes praise when I give it to him lately – he’s trying so hard to get better – but he really does deserve what I give him. I think he could do something with flute if he wanted : after high school.”

“He dislikes praise?”

“Only lately,” Tsumugi reminds. “I think he’s worried that if he gets nothing but praise, he won’t learn how to get better.”

Hisoka sips at his slurpee. “He started clarinet.”

“Ah, that’s true. I hope he’ll continue to better himself both for his sake and Juza-kun’s.”

“I like Juza,” Hisoka admits. “He’s quiet.”

“You do appreciate silence sometimes.”

“I do. He doesn’t say anything when he doesn’t have to. I like that. I like our clarinet section.”

“Hisoka-kun! Are you implying you find me irritating?”

“Not implying. Saying.”

“ _Hisoka-kun_!”

Tsumugi chuckles a little at this exchange : takes a sip of his iced coffee. Homare can practically see Tsumugi’s attention drifting off : like a mist traveling between the mountain range valleys, trickling like the water of a river down mountain peaks. For a funny and clever moment, Homare realizes that mountains are triangles. He ought to mention this to Misumi at some point.

“How’s Chigasaki?” Hisoka asks Tsumugi kindly.

Tsumugi doesn’t look up from his cup. “He’s doing fine,” he says in an eerily neutral tone. “He’s improving on the flute. Perhaps not as quickly as Banri, of course.”

“Yeah?”

Tsumugi nods. “I… haven’t mentioned it because I didn’t know how serious it was, but it looks like he’s found some sort of friendship in Chikage.”

Homare looks to Hisoka. Sure enough, his lover’s face is brutally disdainful.

“What’s he up to?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s nothing. But he seemed close with Itaru, and that has me a little worried.”

Homare senses it’s time to change the subject. “What about Azuma joining us?” he re-directs. “That’s quite the puzzle, is it not? I had never thought to guess that he would be willing to do such a thing. Tasuku must have made quite the proposition.”

Tsumugi winces. “Yeah, it seems so.”

Hisoka kicks Homare’s foot under the table. Suddenly, Homare realizes that this change of topics had been a tragic mistake. He tries to correct his error.

“I mean, pardon my bluntness, but you are dating dear Chigasaki-kun, yes?” he checks. “Azuma’s newfound closeness with Tasuku should be a thankful distraction for Tasuku’s own sake, should it not? You both get to have someone else during your break?”

Another kick informs him that he’s only messed up further. But Tsumugi only sighs : no trace of anger in his face, though the self-loathing is awe-inspiring.

“I _have_ been selfish,” Tsumugi admits. “I guess I’m still scared.”

“Insecurity doesn’t have to be selfish,” Hisoka amends.

“That’s true, too, I suppose. I like Itaru. Quite a bit, actually. But I guess I’m still scared that when I graduate, and he and I inevitably fall out of this crush, I won’t have Tasuku there for me anymore. That’s selfish, isn’t it? He deserves to have anyone he likes.”

“You do not have to relinquish what you have with Chigasaki-kun once you graduate! Your love could be eternal yet still unknown to you. And Tasuku will still be by your side : at the very least as your dear friend.”

“… Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

On Friday, Itaru waits with Banri out by their usual bench in the back. They swap sheet music notes, and Banri spends a solid ten minutes coaxing a high B flat out of Itaru’s flute. Itaru’s not sure if he’s immensely grateful or humiliated beyond his pride’s limit. But Tsumugi’s taking much longer than usual to join them, and they find themselves packing up to go ask around for him in the band room.

It comes from Tasuku – engrossed in sectionals with the director and the newbie Azuma – that Tsumugi woke up this morning with a bad fever. Homare mentions from back with Misumi that he was planning on bringing tea to Tsumugi this weekend. Itaru figures that’s not a bad idea. He mentions the possibility of going to visit Tsumugi himself.

He’s not expecting Tasuku to invite him to come along after band practice.

Which is how he ends up on Tsumugi’s doorstep, half-hidden behind Tasuku, as Tasuku rings the bell. Tasuku doesn’t wait to enter, though, which surprises Itaru quite a bit. Isn’t it rude to simply enter another’s home without being invited in? How many times has Tasuku come over that it’s considered normal?

The house is empty as they enter. In the emptiness, the air is still : though peaceful. Itaru stares at the mini vegetable garden growing on the kitchen counter. A few bowls of water with seeds sunk into them rest on the kitchen table.

Tasuku explains that Tsumugi’s parents are at work. Itaru follows him cautiously up the stairs and to Tsumugi’s bedroom.

The first thing that Itaru notices about Tsumugi’s bedroom is twofold : one is that it’s almost painfully bright and the second is that it’s almost chilly. Takato doesn’t seem to find anything off about the room, though, and heads right over to a window-side desk. The third thing that Itaru notices about the bedroom is that it’s _draped_ floor to ceiling with plants. He stands in the doorway a little speechless and gapes.

“Taa-chan,” a small voice calls out from the blankets. “Is that you?”

Itaru blinks and realizes that the lump in bed is Tsumugi, curled up likely to protect himself from the cold air. Tasuku looks up into the bunkbed.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

His voice is gentle : gentler than Itaru’s ever heard him speak. He feels, suddenly, as if he shouldn’t have accepted Tasuku’s offer to come. This is an intimate moment : to have friends walk into each other’s bedrooms without knocking nor announcing themselves and to have the other, without looking, still know who it is.

“Chigasaki came, too.”

“Itaru-kun?” Tsumugi yelps, and there’s a small scuffle under the blankets before Tsumugi’s head pops out bed-head and all. Itaru can’t hide a small chuckle at how ruffled he looks. “Oh my goodness! I look so ugly like this.” Tsumugi turns to Tasuku with accusation. “ _Tasuku_ , you should have texted me.”

Tasuku laughs. “Worth it to see your reaction.”

Tsumugi’s fevered blush goes redder. He frantically tries to comb into place his messy hair. In the meantime, Itaru wanders in further. As cute as Tsumugi is, the plants all around the room have his attention just a little more.

“I know you said that you loved gardening,” he murmurs and eyes two pots on the windowsill above the desk, “but I didn’t know your bedroom was practically a greenhouse.”

“Oh, no, it’s not, really, it’s, um.”

Itaru smiles to himself as he walks over to the desk. Tsumugi is _insanely_ cute : like an unbloomed UR. There’s a long list of unbloomed URs in his various gatchas of girls’ cards that are just too cute to bloom and lose the copy. He wonders what Tsumugi’s type would be : definitely Earth for some of his games, maybe drama for some of the others. Both the green and blue linings for those card types would suit Tsumugi well.

“Most of them are gifts,” Tsumugi tries to say, but Tasuku immediately snickers.

“Gifts, really?”

“Tasuku,” Tsumugi admonishes. He starts to untangle himself from the blankets : pale blue blankets with little white sheep and white blankets with little pale pink stars. “I did start gardening when my grandmother gave me her wax begonia. Then,” he sheepishly rubs his neck, “well, I guess I just got hooked.”

“For ten years,” Tasuku adds teasingly.

Ten years is a long time, Itaru thinks. He hasn’t been playing video games for ten years yet, and yet he brags about his video games to Citron and Guy more than Tsumugi’s ever mentioned his plants. Maybe Itaru’s initial sin card is ‘pride.’

He leans close to one of the leafy plants potted on the desk in a little pebble tray. “Which one’s this?”

There’s a small hesitation, which Itaru would comment on, but Tsumugi brushes on somewhat blusterly.

“That’s, um, well, those are two of my orchids. They’re not blooming yet, so I have them by the windowsill so they’re a bit warmer.”

“It’s not very warm in here,” Tasuku huffs. “You sure you don’t want it at least a few degrees warmer?”

Tsumugi sighs. A shaky leg finds the top rung of the ladder, and he slowly goes down : navigating his way around the pots perched on the flat tops of the steps. His pajamas are pretty cute, too, in Itaru’s eyes. A matching set of white-and-blue polka dotted fabric. He joins Itaru at the desk and lightly feels the leaves of the orchid plants.

“Yeah, I suppose it should be warmer for them,” he murmurs. “Though it’s only June,” he sighs.

“Mid-June,” Itaru supplies.

Tsumugi nods in consideration and moves over to a thermostat on the wall. He changes the dial on it, and there a grunt from the vents before Itaru distinctly feels a warmer stream of air hitting his ankles from the floor vent. It feels much better than the previous frigid temperature.

Tasuku ducks out of the room with an excuse to brew a pot of tea for them.

“You said you’ve been gardening ten years?” Itaru asks politely.

There’s a small tea table in the middle of the room, of course with an assortment of small pots on it, and he kneels on one of the pillows. He swings his bag off his shoulder and sets it against the edge, too.

“Well, it wasn’t really _gardening_ for the first few years. It was just the begonia, and every year I got a new flower from my grandmother. It wasn’t until, hmm, the first year of middle school that I really wanted to start taking care of as many plants as I could fit in my bedroom.”

Itaru glances around. “You certainly completed that mission goal.”

Tsumugi giggles and sits across the tea table from Itaru. Gently, he moves the pots and few plants off onto the floor.

“Two years ago, I begged my parents to install a separate heating unit for my bedroom so I could keep things temperate for my plants. They were so reluctant at first, but it was my birthday, and then Grandmother insisted.” Tsumugi hums and lightly feathers a touch on the one plant. Itaru watches as the leaves slowly furl up and hide.

“Which is your favorite?”

Tsumugi looks towards the windows. Then, his gaze falls back to the table. For politeness’s sake, Itaru doesn’t turn around to follow Tsumugi’s gaze.

“I’m not sure I have a particular favorite,” he says quietly. A small sniffle has Itaru bringing the tissue box over. He’s thanked with a sweet smile. “Some of the more difficult ones can be fun to encourage to grow. The orchids need a lot of attention. I, um, actually recently bought a blush orchid. But gardenias can also be stressful and rewarding. What about you?”

“Me?”

Tsumugi nods. Of all things that Itaru lavishes his time on, he can safely say that he’s never thought about flowers or plants very much at all. He tries to think of which flowers he even knows of, let alone likes.

“Jasmine’s nice, I suppose.”

He’s pretty sure he’s heard Citron mention it once : wide, stretching fields of Zahran jasmine just for perfumes and scent satchels.

On Saturday, Banri visits Tsumugi. He spends two hours at school with the director first : reviewing the beginner’s basics of clarinet. But by noon, their session is over, and, while the director offers to treat Banri to something from the vending machines, Banri turns her down in favor of going to look for a gift. He didn't have anything the last time he went over to Tsumugi’s place, and Hyodo’s mom had insisted he pick something up on his way there today. So, he has about two thousand yen in his pocket to burn between a gift and snack.

He ends up deciding to go with some pudding for Tsumugi’s cold and a small basket of strawberries he finds at the small farmer’s market by the train station. It’s late in the morning, so the small stalls are mostly picked over, but he still snags a good bunch. Who knows, maybe Tsumugi’s parents will make a shortcake or something with it.

He hasn’t been to Tsumugi’s place since the night he and Hyodo had their last bad fight : about a week ago now. Still, his feet remember the streets. Getting lost isn’t something that Banri experiences very often. Keen sense of direction and all that.

He fans himself with a lazy hand as he rings the doorbell and waits on the doorstep.

It’s hot – again – but more bearable than the last week. Summer likes to do that : show its teeth before it properly arrives. It’s annoying as fuck.

It’s Tsumugi’s dad that ends up answering the door. He greets Banri in with all chipper politeness and glee : accepts the strawberries with a burst of appreciation. It’s the usual script, and Banri doesn’t pay much attention to it beyond what he needs. Tsumugi’s dad seems to appreciate the pudding, too, and welcomes Banri in, pointing down the hallway towards Tsumugi’s bedroom as if Banri’s forgotten in the last few days.

The first time Banri had gone in Tsumugi’s bedroom, the plants had been a little weird. He couldn’t wrap his head around the idea of caring enough about each one of them to keep them all from wilting. But later that night, seeing Tsumugi adjust the lights and temperature in his room just for them, Banri had come to understand it at least a little.

So when he opens the door this time after a knock, he doesn’t really look twice at all the foliage. A few things have been moved around the room. A pot that used to be on the tea table is now up on the desk. A new pot of dirt is on the table. Some of the vegetable garden starters are missing. Banri guesses it’s getting close to time to plant the whole garden.

“Tsumugi-san?” he calls up to the bunk bed.

The small lump of blankets shifts.

“Banri-kun?”

Banri huffs a laugh. Tsumugi sounds like _shit_ : barely has his voice and all.

“I won’t keep ya long. Just wanted to drop off some first aid.”

Tsumugi peers over the railing of his bed with a small, confused frown that clears up when Banri brings one of the puddings out from the bag and shows it off. If he didn’t look so bad, Banri might call the expression relief.

“You can leave it on the table. Thanks.”

“Wow, you sound close to death.”

Tsumugi makes a weird noise that’s probably an attempt at a laugh. “Second day of being sick always hurts the worst.”

“Yeah? Fever?”

“And my throat.”

“Then have some pudding now. It’s still cold ; it’ll help.”

Tsumugi groans but doesn’t protest when Banri wanders down to the kitchen to grab a small spoon.

Tsumugi’s dad is already chopping up the rinsed strawberries and offers a beaming smile as Banri comes up to the silverware drawer.

“Did you wanna stay and have some strawberry salad, Banri? We’ll have plenty to go around.”

“No, thanks, Mr. T. Mom’s making a big dinner tonight, so I’m supposed to wait up.”

Tsumugi’s dad laughs, and it gives Banri the moment he needs to calm down the weird shiver of goosebumps that crawl over his arms at calling Hyodo’s mom _his_ mom.

“Fair enough! Here, I’ll save you a few strawberries to take home yourself as a little snack.”

“Thanks.”

When Banri gets back with the spoon, Tsumugi’s up in his bunk fiddling with a few pills and a water bottle. Banri pops open a pudding and hands it up to him : spoon and all.

“Thanks,” Tsumugi mumbles again, and tears into the soft vanilla stuff. “I’m so hungry, but I’ve been having trouble keeping things down.”

“That blows.”

Tsumugi nods very seriously. He takes another spoonful of the cold pudding.

Banri takes the bit of silence to poke around the books on Tsumugi’s desk. He spots Tsumugi’s flute case lying underneath the tea table, which explains the music books on the top of it. Tsumugi’s desk, however, is littered with untouched schoolwork. Tsumugi will be a few days behind on work once he recovers.

A pamphlet towards the back catches Banri’s eye, though. It’s a pamphlet for music school : for Kyoto. Is Tsumugi really thinking about going all the way out there for school?

Banri ignores it in favor of picking up a small resume sheet also near the back. It’s still only half written in, but there’s enough there to know it’s recent. He didn’t realize Tsumugi was trying to apply for part-time work with only nine months before his move to college.

“What’re you thinking of applying for?”

“Huh? Oh… Oh don’t mind that.”

Banri arches an eyebrow at that. He looks up at Tsumugi, finishing off the last few scoops. He has the distinct feeling that Tsumugi’s purposefully not meeting his eyes.

“Tsumugi-san?”

“Really, it’s nothing.”

“Aren’t ya supposed t’be the mature one of the two of us?”

“I don’t know about that,” Tsumugi sighs. He leans over the railing of his bed and dangles the cup and spoon. Banri takes it and sets it on the desk. “I’m still just a high school student with little idea of what’s waiting outside my neighborhood and friend circle.”

“So, the job application?”

Tsumugi lies back in his bed. “I suppose I keep thinking that it’d be good to get a little experience in. I don’t have much other than my grades and my flute, you know. I get worried sometimes about those things, too. Sometimes, I think ‘oh, I shouldn’t even be giving advice to Itaru or Banri-kun because I don’t know what I’m doing myself yet.’”

“You give good advice, though.”

“Well. I’m glad it helps.”

“A job’d be pretty cool, though, too, right? What are you thinking? Florist’s? You’d be able to get in anywhere.”

“A lot of florist shops want to see flower arrangement skills and things like packing and shipping knowledge.”

“They can teach ya that stuff, though, right? All ya need is to know how to handle the flowers.”

“In interviews, they ask you about specific occasions for arrangements and that sort of thing.”

“What about being their gardener?”

“Most florist’s shops don’t have their greenhouse on-location.”

“You can still apply, though. You know the good shops around here, and you have plenty of growing and caretaking experience. If you wanna do florist stuff professionally or somethin’, you can do something like a workshop series while you’re in college.”

There’s a small pause.

“Banri-kun, I think you’re already starting to grow up a little quicker.” Tsumugi peers down at him with a fever-flushed smile.

“Shut up.”

“Maybe you can keep helping Juza-kun like this.”

Banri groans : not more talking about Hyodo again. He can’t take much more of these knowing (incorrectly because they’re assuming the wrong thing about him and Hyodo) smiles and teasing talk. So what if he hasn’t been interested in a girl yet? That doesn’t make him eager to put his dick in a boy or anything like that.

Though, the mental image of that does send a nice heat immediately pooling in his stomach.

“Shut up,” he settles on and sits down in the chair. “Not like that.”

Wisely, Tsumugi doesn’t push.

“How was clarinet practice with the director?”

“Fine. Clarinet feels weird in the mouth, you know? I don’t like having to bite down on plastic like that. But if Hyodo likes it so much, guess I gotta deal with learning it.”

“It’s nice of you to do that for him.”

“Well, I mean. _Someone_ has to get him to stop squeaking all the damn time.”

“Still, it’s kind,” Tsumugi hums quietly. He glances to the bag still on the tea table and reaches an arm out. “Second pudding, please?”

Itaru stretches a little in front of the ice cream cooler : tries to blink away the last bits of exhaustion from his late-morning sleep-in. Saturday is Itaru’s favorite day of the week, as it is most people’s. For him, Saturday means sleeping in until noon and gaming until the early morning. No obligations, no responsibilities, and no socialization. It’s the perfect day.

At least, Saturday's a perfect day until it’s a Saturday in summer, and the heat drives one insane with desperation for cool snacks. Which is how Itaru’s standing in front of the arcade, trying to decide which of the frozen treats he wants to trade 200 of his arcade tokens for.

Normally, he’d go straight for the old classic watermelon ice pouch. Citron’s favorite is the chocolate-covered banana with little pistachio crumbs. Itaru never saw Guy eat a frozen treat, but his bet’s that Guy’d appreciate a mango popsicle or something similar. He definitely has an affection for tropical fruit flavors, if his persistence in making dragonfruit and kiwi smoothies is to be taken into account.

Today’s a little different, though, because Itaru has a new game he wants to play. It’s just a low-budget Indie game based off of exploring a town and initiating dialogue, but he’s been waiting for months to finally open the Steam page and play it. It’s a game about summer nights and summer afternoons : seeing the old parts of town go and the new parts come. It’s nostalgia in a game, and Itaru’s hoping to find a new but memorable flavor to kick it off with.

He slides the cooler top to the side and reaches in for a milk popsicle and adzuki bar. Technically, this means he’ll have to fork over another 200 of his coins, but that’s a fair trade for how well the two flavors mix. The guy running the small ice cream stand raises an eyebrow at the two snacks until Itaru pulls out his cup and dumps the rest of his coins on the counter.

“Stay cool, kid. It’s a hot one.”

“Yeah.”

Itaru kind of regrets pouring his last coins on the treats now. He’ll have to come with Citron tomorrow or Monday night to win back their cache at the ski ball machines. Maybe Citron will take pity on him and share half his winnings if Itaru agrees to lend him his copy of KniRoun 2 and Gameboy Advance for a week.

He fiddles with the packaging on the adzuki bar and throws the milk popsicle in his back pocket. That’ll create a wet spot, but he doesn’t care too much. It’s not as if he’ll be seeing anyone he knows today.

Itaru throws the wrapper in the trash can and sets off for the street back to his place.

“Chigasaki?”

Itaru freezes. How can this be happening to him? On Saturday, of all days.

There’s a small laugh from behind him, and then the footsteps on sidewalk start to sound a little louder in Itaru’s ears. He turns around and meets Chikage face-to-face.

“Senpai,” he greets.

“I think your back pocket is having some trouble.”

“Yeah, I do remember putting the popsicle there. What do you want?”

Chikage, predictably, ignores him in favor and poking at the logo on Itaru’s merch t-shirt. So what if Itaru likes Resident Evil? It’s a pretty decent game to be wearing a t-shirt of, all things considered. Chikage probably doesn’t even know Umbrella.

“I didn’t expect to see you out,” Chikage hums. “I pegged you as a shut-in type.”

“That doesn’t mean I never leave my house at all.”

“Fair enough, I suppose.”

“What are you doing by the arcade?”

Chikage’s eyebrows go up. The thin, mocking smile on his lips doesn’t help the overall demeanor. “Surely you’re aware that there _are_ shops other than the arcade along this street.”

Itaru turns around and keeps walking. Chikage’s footsteps, annoyingly, manage to keep right in step with him.

“If you must know, I happened to spot a remarkably uncute junior of mine within eyesight of his old ex and decided to pop in for some social protection.”

Itaru pauses : risks a glance up at Chikage.

“You saw…”

“What is this, your third boyfriend since we broke up?” Tonooka’s voice asks from behind him. “I knew your standards were low, but I didn’t think it was this bad.”

Itaru grits his teeth. The adzuki bar in his hand doesn’t matter much to him anymore. Nor does the still-melting milk popsicle in his back pocket, still steadily sweating a water stain onto his shorts. Why does it always have to be _him_.

“You seem awfully invested for someone who claims to look down on him,” Chikage counters.

Tonooka sneers. “You know he’ll just stab you in the back, too.”

“Doubtful.”

Itaru turns around and hides his face. He’s not weak, that’s not it. At least, Itaru doesn’t like to think that he’s weak for this. He’s the type of DPS player in all his RPGs and MMOs that supports his friends rather than the other way around. It’d be embarrassing if the person behind that player was weak like this.

But he can’t hide the fact that, even now, hearing Tonooka’s voice sends dizzying nausea into his stomach and settles there like a festering poison. He already feels like he’s close to vomiting. This has definitely ruined the day because now he won’t be able to stop thinking about this and he’ll have ghost pains again tonight as he sleeps and nightmares and tomorrow on Sunday he won’t be able to meet up with Citron and Guy because he’ll be exhausted and then they’ll ask questions on Monday, which will bring all of this right back to the foreground and then again he won’t be able to sleep and then he’ll fail the quiz on Tuesday because he won’t-

A hand finds his shoulder. Itaru can’t hide the flinch away from it.

He’s aware now that Tonooka must still be talking. His mind’s panicked enough that the words aren’t making sense together, but he can still catch the individual words : ‘selfish,’ ‘fucked up.’ Those stand out.

“If you’re _done_ ,” Chikage cuts him off, “we’ll be going.”

“I’m not _done_. Who do you think you are?”

“I’m his senpai, so if you’ll excuse me, I think we have better things to be doing.”

The hand on Itaru’s shoulder guides him firmly a few steps down the road once again. His feet, however, drag like lead.

“You joined the band club, didn’t you, Chigasaki?”

Chikage lets Itaru stop walking.

“What about it?” Itaru asks, and his voice sounds pathetic.

“I can find you there, you know.”

“Is that a threat?” Chikage interrupts.

He must have a trick up his sleeve, Itaru realizes. Chikage’s too clever to get caught into a vicious cycle at the hands of someone like Tonooka. No, he must be hoping that Tonooka ends up saying something damaging enough.

“Not a threat,” Tonooka replies, equally cocky in tone. “Just a reminder. Have fun with the rest of your weekend, Chigasaki. Use protection. Wouldn’t want to catch something.”

It’s a few seconds before Chikage pulls his phone out of his pocket. He taps at the screen once, then types something.

Itaru watches the adzuki bar slide off the popsicle stick, now having melted enough to no longer be able to resist gravity’s call. His milk popsicle must be in bad shape, too. He’ll have to put it in the fridge first and unwrap it carefully later.

“That went well, I think.”

Itaru stares at Chikage. He suddenly feels exhausted. He can’t even perform a single emotion on his face to react to that statement.

Chikage shows him the phone screen. Dully, Itaru reads ‘16 June - Chigasaki.’ He looks once again to Chikage’s eyes, watching through those large frames of his.

“Evidence,” Chikage clarifies and shakes the phone a little. He slides it back into his pocket. “We can take this to the principals, if you’d like.”

“No,” Itaru disagrees. He turns to stare at the adzuki bar on the sidewalk. “They’d only embarrass us.”

Chikage is silent for a moment. “Sometimes, things are like that,” he admits. “What about that new director for the band club? I’ve heard interesting things about her.”

“Define interesting.”

“She’s a lesbian, I hear.”

“Yeah, that’s true, at least.”

“What I mean to say is she wouldn’t accept that _thing_ near the band room, if you showed her this recording. No worries there.”

“What, is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Chikage sighs. “I suppose not, then.” After another beat of silence, he offers, “How about I treat you somewhere?”

Itaru ends up ditching the milk popsicle in a trash can along the way to wherever Chikage is taking him. It’s a decently far walk, Itaru comes to realize. Up and up the hill away from the train station they go : until Itaru no longer knows the streets and could only find his way back by the aerial view of the valley.

“Senpai,” he whines when they start up a stairway leading to a scenery park. “Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll see.”

“It’s hot,” Itaru continues to complain. “I’ve just had a really bad time, too.”

Chikage, the bastard, doesn’t even turn around to spare him a glance. Itaru clambers up the steps after him, but he’s starting to melt just like his ice cream earlier. There are reasons why Itaru despises hot weather.

At the top, Chikage doesn’t even let Itaru catch his breath. He wanders off to the vending machines and slides a few coins in : presses the buttons. Coffee begins to pour into the cup – steaming hot, as if anyone needs any warming up – and from the other machine Chikage buys a pack of cinnamon crackers.

“What do you want?” he asks Itaru.

“Uh,” Itaru peers through the glass. “Grape soda and the hot pizza pockets.”

Chikage curls his lip and presses the buttons. “No wonder you’re out of shape,” he quips.

“Gotta be happy somehow.”

They sit on one of the benches and look down over the railing into the valley. The train station and the high school are conspicuous landmarks, but Itaru also spots the library and the arcade. A few recognizable shops dot around the station. Itaru doesn’t think he’s ever come up this way before.

“Thanks,” Itaru finally musters the courage to say. “I wouldn’t have been able to handle that alone.”

“I’m aware.” Chikage sips from his cup of coffee. “That’s alright.”

“Is it?”

“Well, I was there, wasn’t I? If you have me or that other friend of yours – that foreign exchange student – then things are fine. Once you leave this place for college, it’ll all feel like a distant memory. Most people like that don’t have the resources to truly stalk anyone.”

“Do… you know much about stalkers?”

Chikage swirls his cup and takes a bite of his cracker. “A bit,” is all he replies with, which is both incredibly suspicious and very _not_ reassuring in Itaru’s eyes.

“Well. Either way, thanks. I feel like I should be buying you the snack.” Itaru laughs here to make this seem less pathetic : like he has some control and self-awareness.

“You can make it up to me later.”

Itaru grimaces. “Don’t say it like that. That sounds gross.”

“I don’t mean it in that way,” Chikage chuckles. “I find myself enjoying your company, though, I must say. I wouldn’t mind seeing you here and there a little more often. Preferably _without_ the two-legged creature from today.”

Itaru wonders exactly what he’s agreeing to when he shrugs and says ‘sure.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> itaru : "do... you know much abt stalkers???"  
> chikage, thinking about how he's been stalking hisoka for a while now : "a bit"
> 
> ((if you haven't seen mimosa pudica before, i highly recommend you google a video of it!! it's rlly common in greenhouses where i grew up, but most of my out-of-state friends havent seen it before outside of movies. it fascinated me as a kid lol))


	19. stand, family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tsumugi recovers from his fever, Banri goes to confront his parents, the Band Kids TM learn a little more about Juza and Banri, and Chikage has a new, odd request for Itaru

It’s on Tuesday - once the weekend’s over and no more than a foggy, fevered memory - that Tsumugi goes back into school. He supposes, in a sense, he was lucky to have gotten sick over the weekend. A Friday and a Monday's worth of work is easy enough to make up. Any more days would have been troublesome. And in the same line of thought, he’s only missed two band practices.

But Tsumugi can’t help but feel disappointed about the timing. Weekends are his reprieve and his time for practicing : practicing seriously. It’s not a Sunday evening if he doesn’t spend half of it in the sunroom with his flute, and it’s not a Saturday afternoon if he doesn’t spend all of it kneeling outside in the vegetable garden. It’s the flute practice he laments the most, though.

He was so close to being ready for his solo lesson with the director today, too. Now, he’ll be out of practice for it. Tsumugi wonders if she’ll push it to later in the week.

His mother offers to give him a doctor’s note to go in late, and Tsumugi takes the opportunity to sleep in. So, when he wakes up on Tuesday, it’s already eight in the morning. It’s been a while since he’s woken up so late on a day that he’s still gone into school. He takes his time to enjoy the morning as much as he can.

When he usually switches the automatic watering system on in the morning, this morning Tsumugi cares for his plants with his own hands : spray-bottles the bark-growing orchids gently and fills up the terracotta pots. He gently pours a half-cup of water into the moss bowl his one succulent is growing out of (an oddly successful combination, he’s found). The ferns get their own special treatment.

Tsumugi’s mom brews him tea for breakfast. She sits with him, and they cook bacon and eggs on their hot plate for breakfast. His dad’s already gone for the morning to his office job, but he’s left a note next to Tsumugi’s bentou in the fridge. A small smiley face is drawn on the corner.

His mom asks why he’s so quiet today : if he’s still feeling too under the weather to make it to school in the summer heat (now that it finally – officially – is summer). Tsumugi shrugs off the question with a smile. He blames in on flute practice, and she seems to buy this. Gently, she asks him to take things easy and not push too hard.

Tsumugi dislikes himself for this.

He wishes it were easier to open up to others about his insecurities. He wonders if he’s becoming too hypocritical : letting Banri poke around his desk and unearth things like that awful job application form while simultaneously keeping things quiet from his parents. Banri’s confused tone still echoes in his head a little. Even he hadn’t known how to approach a self-doubting Tsumugi.

Tsumugi leaves the house at ten. The doctor’s note from his mother is in his bag, and the mini gift basket she’s put together for the director is in his hands. He finds Banri waiting at the train station for him and chides Banri for not going to school on time. Banri merely grins at him and makes up some excuse that Tsumugi knows isn’t true but, for once, isn’t hiding anything, either.

They get through the school gates at 10:30 together : fetch their shoes from their lockers in peaceful silence. From there, Banri wishes him luck in the staff room and saunters back outside to convince Sakuya to let him in through the window. Tsumugi chuckles at this.

Later, he’ll have to ask Banri how things with Juza have been going.

Classes are still in-session, and so Tsumugi heads first to the staff room to drop off his note on his homeroom teacher’s desk. He mumbles his apologies for interrupting as he slides the staff room door just open enough to slide through and waits for one of the teachers to beckon him inside before heading over to Nakamura-sensei’s desk. Surprisingly, the director’s in the staff room, too, and she perks up with a big smile when she catches sight of him.

Tsumugi waves a little and, remembering the gift basket still in his hands, shuffles over to her desk.

“How’re you feeling?” she asks. “Tasuku-kun said your fever was pretty bad this weekend.”

“I’m better,” Tsumugi mumbles. Somehow, he still gets embarrassed around her. “I’m sorry about missing so many practices. I, um, wanted to get you something as an apology.”

He offers out the gift basket, and her eyes go a little owlish.

“Oh, no, don’t apologize for being sick! We’ve all been there!”

“I still feel bad since I know my solo practice was supposed to be today.”

The director peers into the little basket and pulls out the satchel of tea. Then, she pulls out the box of pocky – strawberry-flavored – and smiles a little at the packaging. In the quietude of the staff room, the director’s energy is almost deafening. Tsumugi wonders why she isn’t in the band room today like always ; the staff room definitely doesn’t fit her personality.

“This is so sweet,” she thanks. “I can brew some of the tea later for us, if you’d like. Maybe after your solo lesson? We can talk about some logistical things for your performance while we have it.”

“That sounds nice.”

She beams and prods him a little more about how he feels – he reassures her that the fever’s completely gone – and, then, she ushers him off to class.

It’s funny how easily Tsumugi’s spirits lift up after talking with her : even just for a few short moments. He’s aware of the trope that a good band is good through its conductor, and he’s always believed it. But he’s never believed it as genuinely as he has for the past few months.

He doesn’t even realize his fingers are itching for his flute until he arrives at his classroom. With only a few minutes left in second period, he waits in the hallway. In the meantime, he finds himself stretching his knuckles like he’s preparing for a tricky etude. He takes it as a good sign.

Tsumugi’s not the type of player that likes to ghost his way through music notes memorized in his head. He knows Tasuku likes to drum on anything – textbooks, desk chairs, thighs – the patterns from his music. His mom sometimes taps her way through piano music stuck in her head. But Tsumugi doesn’t like pretending to play what he doesn’t have in his hands. So, he keeps stretching his joints and thinks about cool, smooth metal under the pads of his fingers.

Class lets out quickly. Tsumugi slips in through the back door at the same time a chorus of chatter explodes alongside the bell. In the relief of class being over, no one really seems to notice him come in.

But, of course, Tasuku notices him the moment he’s through the door. Tsumugi sets his bag down on the desk he has beside Tasuku and lets out the tired sigh he’s been holding in. Tasuku raises an eyebrow.

“Almost thought you were gonna stay home today.”

“Mom just let me sleep in a little.”

“Nice of her.”

“Yeah.”

They’re quiet for a bit as Tsumugi unpacks his bag and settles into his seat. Having names so close on the alphabet sometimes has its benefits. Being able to guarantee a seat next of an old friend is one of those benefits.

Their chemistry review is next period, so he leaves those books out, but he also pulls out his sheet music for ‘Syrinx’ just to look at. As if he hasn’t already memorized half the piece just in his anxiety for practices. Tasuku snorts beside him.

“What?” Tsumugi asks, already starting to laugh along with whatever’s amused Tasuku. Tasuku points to the little scribble in the corner of the first page – ‘Fight!’ – that Banri wrote in a few weeks ago. “What about it?”

“Which one wrote that?”

“Banri-kun, why?”

Tasuku chuckles. “Cute.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that!” Tsumugi laughs. “Did I miss much in band yesterday?”

“A bit. We had to talk Arisugawa into taking off his binder just so he didn’t _faint_ trying to play French horn in the heat.”

“Oh, was he alright?”

“Loopy and out of breath, but yeah. Citron had a spare bra in his bag? Is that normal?”

“I,” Tsumugi flounders, “how would I know?”

“Fair enough. What else… Itaru took your solo for our competition piece yesterday.”

“How’d he do with it?”

“Well. He could work on his tone.” Tsumugi frowns at him, and Tasuku quickly amends himself. “He managed to get through it, though. Guess that’s good.”

“All the beginners are doing really well,” Tsumugi agrees. “They’re all trying to catch up in time for the expo, I think.”

“Yukishiro’s catching up quickly.”

That sets a weird tension between them.

“Is he?” Tsumugi asks lightly.

“I’d praise him for it, but something tells me it’d make his cockiness worse.”

“I wouldn’t call it cockiness.” Tasuku pauses in whatever he was about to say and gives Tsumugi a weird, judgmental look. “Maybe it would be good to have him and Itaru review things together,” Tsumugi suggests to keep the conversation moving. “I know Itaru’s ahead of where Azuma-san is, but I think he could use the reassurance of being leader for a change.”

Tasuku shrugs. He seems willing enough to drop Tsumugi’s barbed little comment. “Maybe ask the Director about it.”

“Mixed section practices?”

“Sure. We haven’t really done much as President or Vice President, so maybe this’ll get her excited about the whole ‘club’ thing. She’ll probably think it’s a fantastic idea.”

“Alright,” Tsumugi agrees. His fingers find the corner of a page and fiddle with it. “I’ll ask her later today.”

Tsumugi keeps the idea safe on a sticky note on his sheet music. His sheet music is already covered in sticky notes and little sticky tabs : blue and yellow and orange and white like a nice and clean-sky sunrise. Some of the sticky notes remind him to work on his taper-outs and his small deviations from the crescendos and sforzandos. Others are small notes about cleaning his flute before every practice as a habit : so that, on the big day, he’ll perform with the brightest flute he can.

Some sticky notes have no relevance to the flute or band at all. There are little doodles of flowers and of Zabi. He has a printed photograph from a flower show’s orchid display paper-clipped as a bookmark in his practice book, too.

It’s a helpful habit for remembering things, Tsumugi’s found.

He plays with the little corners and edges that stick out when he’s nervous. Sometimes, nothing reassures the soul like rubbing a bit of soft and thin paper between one’s fingertips. He does this in band practice today.

While Banri and Itaru bicker over a bit of their practice book, arguing about the best timing to breathe amongst the smattering of notes on the page, Tsumugi keeps his eyes on Tasuku and Azuma in their row. They’re just starting their sectional with the director, and Azuma’s teasing Tasuku as the director gets set up.

A light hand starts to move up Tasuku’s knee and is furiously swatted away. Azuma laughs. Tasuku’s ears burn bright. Something tight in Tsumugi’s throat constricts.

With her saxophone assembled, the director gently redirects them to pay attention to sectional. They run through their scales. Under the smooth tone of Tasuku’s playing and the experienced sound of the director’s, Tsumugi can still hear Azuma’s own timber. Tasuku was right ; Azuma has progressed well.

It should be expected, Tsumugi supposes. Azuma’s love for jazz and for fine arts is well-known even outside their friend group. It could only be expected that Azuma’s finesse with tea ceremony and with origami in art classes would transfer into his care with playing an instrument. He doesn’t squeak, and his fingers don’t hesitate to reach their keys.

It’s still far from Tasuku’s level or the director’s – and a bit behind where Hisoka and Homare are – but it speaks of quiet confidence. Azuma isn’t embarrassed to be a beginner.

Tsumugi wonders if he should call the ugly little feeling in his chest ‘jealousy.’ How someone without a stable home and without a clear desire for the future can somehow be more confident than someone with those things, Tsumugi doesn’t know. Or maybe it’s the fact that Tsumugi wants something – stability, though he doesn’t know where or how – that makes the fear of not succeeding all the more present.

It doesn’t change much the fact that playing a few notes on a page won’t take Tsumugi to that ‘stability’ in his dreams : the large garden, the sunny kitchen, the partner living with him. Music doesn’t promise success quite like other careers do : quite like even minimum wage jobs could, with the right partner.

The job application paper comes to his mind again, and Tsumugi wishes it hadn’t.

In the background of his thoughts, he hears the rest of the band room continuing like normal. Homare speaks energetically to Misumi, who leans in listening with shining eyes. Today, their conversation is something about triangles : like the triangles Misumi mentioned in the sweets shop. Homare mentions the bell of his French horn, and Misumi chimes in enthusiastically.

Kazunari is missing today – likely in art club – though the days like this are much less frequent than they were in the beginning. It’s now about half-and-half : when Kazunari is here and when he’s off with the art students. But even on the days he is in band with them all, Misumi spends a little more time with Homare than he does Kazunari.

The trumpets are out of the band room for the day. They’ve decided to brave the sweltering heat of the other, empty classrooms in this side of the building. The lower brass practice together in the back by the windows. They roll through their scales.

(In another classroom, far off into the building, Masumi remembers his promise to the director to work harder in his sectionals and leans over to help correct Citron’s posture. Tsuzuru’s eyes almost fall straight out of their sockets in disbelief.)

And Tsumugi continues to stare at the chalkboard in the front of the classroom and zones out with his negative thoughts.

It’s impressive, really, how quickly a good day can turn into a bad one.

Itaru gently nudges him, and Tsumugi brings his attention a little closer to center : turns to his flutemates with an inquisitive openness.

“You good, man?” is how Banri chooses to word the question, which Itaru responds with a remarkably snarky scowl in Banri’s direction. Banri rolls with it. “You’re just zonin.’”

“Just vibin,’” Itaru agrees.

“Vibing?”

“It’s nothing,” Itaru quickly dismisses. “What’s on your mind?”

Looking at the soft features of Itaru’s face, mildly dampened with concern, Tsumugi can’t help but let go of some of the ugliness in his chest. He inhales and sighs : relaxes his shoulders a little when he realizes they’re tensed up.

“Nothing,” Tsumugi smiles. “I’ve been spacey since the weekend, sorry.”

Itaru nods slowly, and Tsumugi wonders if he’s convinced him. They always play this game of trying to get around pouring their heart out to each other, and, every time, the other manages to notice.

“Well, if you want to talk…”

“I’ll let you know.”

Banri clicks his tongue. “Gay,” he says, derogatorily, and then leans in. “Anyway, two main things you should know. First of all, I gotta leave in a few minutes for something, so no flute practice for me.” He shoots a triumphant smirk at Itaru. “But, uh, second of all, we got you somethin’ as, like, a get-well gift or whatever.”

“A ‘welcome-back’ gift,” Itaru corrects sourly. “It’s not much, though.”

Tsumugi’s interest is piqued, nonetheless. “You didn’t have to,” he tries, but Itaru’s eyes light up suddenly as if this reaction is amusing. “What?”

“You have to let others do something for you in return every now and then,” Itaru teases.

Tsumugi’s hands heat up a little at that. They heat up even more when Itaru hands over a new polishing cloth. It’s a pretty pale blue that Tsumugi instantly likes, and the inside part has a nice, second layer of fabric to it.

He reaches for it gingerly and admires it for a moment.

It’s just a polishing cloth, he tries to reason with himself, but it just means so much to him that Itaru and Banri took the time to go to the music store and spend a few hundred yen on him just because he got sick for a few days. He smiles at the two of them. Banri immediately turns away – ever adverse to showing his soft side – and Itaru merely abashedly glances between his sheet music and Tsumugi.

“This is really nice,” Tsumugi tells them. “Thanks.”

“It was Itaru’s idea,” Banri grouches. “Made me go with him to pick it out. Nothing special.”

“Still, I really appreciate that you thought to take the time to do that for me.” Tsumugi giggles at the way Banri still refuses to look at either of them. “It’s very sweet.”

“I ain’t sweet. Tsumugi-san, take that back.”

“Nope, I said it,” Tsumugi laughs at the murderous look he gets. “Banri-kun, you said you had to leave early? What for?”

“Don’t derail the conversation!”

“Oi, don’t dent your flute,” Itaru mutters. “Stop waving it around.”

“I’m not _waving it around_ , pretty boy.”

“Uh huh.”

“Don’t say ‘ _uh huh_ ’ to me!”

“Is there a Settsu-kun in here?” a voice calls out from the doorway.

The three of them swivel in their seats to stare at whoever just asked that with varying degrees of horror, shock, and fury. Tsumugi wonders wildly for a moment if this staff member is about to get killed for daring to use the phrase ‘Settsu-kun’ to Banri’s face. A snort comes from Juza behind them. Banri’s head snaps to him at the sound of it.

A full-blown fight is exactly two seconds away from exploding when the director bounces to her feet and, in the slightly high-pitched tone of ‘distracting Banri from Juza’ that is now so well-known to all the band members, she announces, “Banri-kun! Why don’t you go see your mom and keep her from waiting?”

“She’s not _my_ mom!”

“Banri-kun!” The director’s eyes are terrifying. “Tip top!”

There’s a long pause. Banri glances between the various faces of the band members, all waiting to see his reaction.

“Fine,” Banri snarls. He snatches his music off the stand. “I’m going already.”

“We’ll see you tomorrow!” Omi cheerfully calls.

Less cheerfully, Sakyo adds, “Make sure you put away your instrument properly before you leave.” He gets a neat hand gesture in return just as Banri disappears out the door.

Tsumugi chuckles a little, and Itaru sighs.

“The mouth on that kid,” Itaru groans.

“You okay?” Omi asks Juza gently, nudging him. “You haven’t fought in a while.”

“Wasn’t a fight,” Juza replies, a little tone of protest in his voice. “Just… We fight for fun sometimes. ‘s not always ‘cause we're mad.”

“How _is_ Banri acting now?” Tsumugi asked. If he doesn’t have the time to bother Banri with questions, he’ll poke Juza for answers. “Has he calmed down a little around the house?”

“Banri’s staying with you?” Omi asks.

Juza shifts. “Yeah,” he mumbles. Oh, Tsumugi realizes, this must embarrass him a little. “‘s not ‘cause of anythin’ weird. Mum just likes him. ‘nd Settsu’s fightin’ with his folks.”

“I see,” Omi laughs. “So, it’s not just his schoolmates.”

A small smile flickers onto Juza’s lips. “Nah.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Juza nods a little, and there’s a small moment they all wait for someone to talk next. Juza lifts his chin a little to meet Tsumugi’s eyes.

“Thanks, by the way,” he says quietly.

Tsumugi blinks. “Wait, me?” he asks. “For what?”

“The macarons.”

Tsumugi thinks back to any macarons he’s bought and- “Oh,” he says in understanding. “Did Banri-kun finally give them to you?”

An odd flush rises on Juza’s face. “Sorta,” he dodges the question. “He said you bought them. Thought I should say thanks.”

“No worries! But… ‘sort of?’ He didn’t eat some before giving the rest to you, did he?”

“Nothin’ like that,” Juza mumbles. “Just… nah, nothin.’ Thanks.”

Omi and Tsumugi share a glance : eyebrows to the ceiling. Itaru snorts. Juza’s blush burns a little darker.

The walk to Banri’s house is quiet and tense. It’s a time of day when few people are out : the students without club activities already long since home and those with club activities still with hours left to go. Hyodo’s mom follows close behind him. She knows where his house is – she’s lived in this town long enough and escorted Banri home after dark enough times – but she’s trying so hard to let Banri maintain authority over what happens this afternoon. Not for the first time, Banri wonders what would have happened if he had been born with a mom like her.

She would have never sent him off to Kousaki, that’s for damn sure. She would have probably spoiled him silly just like she spoils Hyodo and Kumon. Even when he isn’t her son, she’s nothing but supportive.

He wonders just how terribly this conversation will go.

When they arrive at the gate to his place, she puts a hand on his shoulder and slows him down. They’re still out of sight from the windows : hidden behind the white-painted brick wall of this part of the neighborhood’s property fences. Standing so close to each other, Banri realizes just how much taller than her he’s grown when she cranes her neck back to look him in the eyes.

“Before we go in,” she says, “I want you to know I have you.”

“Like… what do you mean?”

“I keep my opinions of others to myself if I don’t think they’re kind. But as far as I’m concerned, you’re my son. If not son-in-law-” Banri sputters, “-then, at least, my son. However this goes, you’re always welcome in my home.”

Banri’s not sure how to respond to so much kindness at once.

“Thanks, Ms. H,” he settles with. He smiles down at her, and she smiles up at him with her own sugary sweet one.

He unlocks the gate to his place and holds it open for her. The night he had stormed out of here, now months ago, he hadn’t bothered to take anything other than his phone and charger with him. He snags the spare key from the porch rug and hides the breath he takes as he slides it into the door lock and unlocks the shutter.

He slides the door open and drops the key back under the rug.

Stepping into the shoe stoop, he sees the kitchen lights on down the hall and hears the sounds of chopping vegetables and water running. The kitchen fan’s on, too, by the sound of it. It’s the house he technically belongs to, but the sounds don’t sound like home. He’s spent too much of his life at Hyodo’s place to associate any of this with ‘home.’

Nevertheless, “I’m home,” he calls out into the house : with no small amount of displeasure.

He kicks his sneakers off and steps into the hallway. Hyodo’s mom neatly slides her Mary Janes off behind him and takes the step up onto the cool, wooden flooring.

The sound of chopping in the kitchen halts. “Banri?” a voice _decidedly_ not his mother’s calls.

Banri barely has the time to register who the hell is in his house’s kitchen before a tall, very Western, very attractive woman steps around the corner of the kitchen doorway and pauses. He stares at the leather pants, the golden choker, and the long, blonde hair.

“ _Aki-nee_?”

It must be his sister because she’s striding her way down the hall and then throwing her arms around him. He blinks. Suddenly, up close, she’s not as tall as she seemed. She only comes up to his nose or so, and he can just barely see over the strands of her dyed hair.

He hasn’t seen his sister in _years_. In more than that, actually. The last time he saw Aki, she was heading out the door with their father to be put on the train to Kousaki Private High herself. That was, Banri has to count it, nine years ago.

Back then, she had still had her black hair and her braces and her weird little keychains. Back then, Banri had only come up to her waist.

“By God,” she laughs, and her hold is bone-crushingly tight, “I see you’ve become just as much of a delinquent as your big sis did.”

She pulls back and takes him in slowly : combs a hand with long and black-painted nails through his dyed locks (which, now that he thinks about it, had been its natural dark brown the last time he had seen her, too). She stops to admire the collection of piercings he’s collected on his left ear. Clapping a strong hand on his shoulder, she turns slightly to take in Hyodo’s mom.

“Who’s this?”

Hyodo’s mom bows deeply and holds out the fruit arrangement she had bought on the way over. “It’s been such a long time. I’m the mother of Banri-kun’s old childhood friend Juza. My name’s Hyodo Juuko.”

Aki takes the arrangement from Hyodo’s mom and raises an eyebrow at it. “Yeah, I remember that little kid. He had purple hair during your last year of elementary, right?” she turns to Banri.

“Still does.”

“You couldn’t go a night without sleeping over at their place.”

“That is _not_ true.”

Aki considers this. “Ah, well, you did sleep in my bed a lot back then, too.”

“ _That is not true_.”

Hyodo’s mom chuckles a little. Banri feels like he’s suffocating.

“What are you doing home?” he asks. “Those old shits just stopped talking about you after I entered middle school. I figured I was never gonna see you again.”

“Well,” Aki sighs, “I hadn’t exactly intended on coming back. But first, Ms. Hyodo, why don’t you come in? Banri can get some tea started-”

“ _Don’t_ treat me like a little kid.”

“-and we can talk about things.”

Banri’s seething by the time his sister leads Hyodo’s mother back into the kitchen. He suddenly remembers how frequently he and his sister had fought, and she had _always_ won those fights. Not just because he was a kid but also because she was just so infuriatingly persistent. It makes a lot of sense that she went delinquent like he did.

He can’t exactly avoid it, so he ends up making the tea. Though not without gritting his teeth hard enough to crack them as he does so.

“Can I ask where Mr. and Mrs. Settsu are?” Hyodo’s mom asks. “Banri and I had hoped to sit down and talk with them.”

“Oh, yeah, they’re out until dinnertime. Dad’s still at work, and Mom got so angry at seeing me here that she said she was going out for the rest of the day.”

Banri looks up. “Did you just get back?”

“More like I just decided to pay a visit,” Aki drawls. “You think I want back in this household?”

“Wait. Hold up. I know why _I_ hate those shitheads. Why do _you_ hate them?”

“Uh. They sent me to that hell of a ‘private school’ and pressured the fuck out of me to perform at absolutely unrealistic expectations. They didn’t tell you, did they? I ended up running away with two guys I was friends with towards the end of my first year. Went all the way to Tokyo and have been making a living for myself there.”

Banri cannot believe his ears.

“You did _what_?”

Aki shrugs. “I wasn’t exactly going to stay under their thumb.”

“Okay. And why’re you back?”

“Came to get you.”

“ _What_?”

Aki gives him a dry look. “You didn’t think I was going to just leave you here, did you? Haven’t seen you in almost a decade, but you’re my kid brother, and these fuckers weren’t exactly going to change in their ways. I have enough money saved up now. I can even send you to college if you want, I think.”

Banri shuts out his thoughts long enough to set the teapot on the tray with the cups and carry it over to the table. He serves the tea in silence : three cups. Then, he takes a seat.

“Okay,” he says after taking a sip. “You’re going to have to run that by me again.”

“I ran away in my first year of high school at Kousaki with two of my friends. Both of them kind of left me for nothing once we got to Tokyo, so I went around picking up jobs. Worked auto jobs for motorcycles for a few years, bustled trays and dishes for a while, went into hostessing, quit that, and I’ve been splitting my time between a new auto place and doing piercings since.”

“You _do piercings_ and _work on motorcycles_?”

“Uh, yeah?”

Banri takes another long sip of tea, then pours himself some more. He remembers an older sister with the ugliest of outdated pop culture reference keychains, ugly shoes, nerdy braces, and a closet full of sequins. If there was one word to describe his sister, it would have been ‘tacky.’ Now, this new older sister sitting in front of him is probably… Banri would go with ‘intimidating’ and leave it at that.

“Cool,” is all he manages.

She raises an eyebrow. “And what about you? Mom said you left just like I did a few weeks ago.”

“Not exactly? I kinda just left the house and started crashing in the park before I bullied Hyodo into letting me into his place.” He remembers Hyodo’s mom. “Uh, I mean-”

“All I care is that you have a roof over your head and warm food,” Hyodo’s mom forgives. “I don’t care how that came to be. I think my Juza feels the same.”

Banri scoffs, but, privately, there’s a small worm of a question in his gut as he takes his sip of tea. _Is_ that how Hyodo feels about it? Something about the way they’ve been working with each other lately seems a little different. Hyodo’s been staring at him way too much whenever Banri slips him one of those macarons : after Hyodo gets through his homework for the day, if Hyodo brings home a good test score. That seems more invested than not caring where Banri’s staying, so long as it’s healthy.

Aki gets him to pour her more tea, and they start a long walk down a path of memories that Banri didn’t think would ever get mentioned aloud again. It’s enough to fill in Hyodo’s mom before Banri’s parents get home. _That’s_ when all hell will break loose.

In the last thirty minutes of the day, Itaru finds himself alone in the band room. Banri’s long since left for whatever it is he got picked up early for, and Tsumugi’s gone off into another classroom to practice his solo with the director. It’s not instantly that Itaru realizes this, though. He continues to practice for a few minutes before he comes around to the fact that there’s no longer any obligation to continue his exercises.

Misumi and Homare are still giggling together in the back. Juza’s learning an alternate fingering on the clarinet to make it easier for him to speed through his notes. Itaru recalls Tsumugi teaching him and Banri the secret of being able to keep one’s right index finger down when fluttering quickly between a B flat and A natural on the flute : a possibility that had opened Banri’s eyes to playing around with all the keys on his flute.

But no one’s really paying attention, and, so, Itaru slinks out of the band room with his book. It might be cooler in the main room with all the fans that the director’s set up for them, but Itaru still prefers being able to click through his games in peace.

He ends up going out to the usual table in the shade of the building’s shadow – by the hedges and fence – where the flutes used to practice every day before June came. He sets his music down, his flute down, and opens up one of his games. It’s easy enough to wait out the automatic grinding system while doing something else, and thus is his plan to knock out two birds with one stone.

Except he doesn’t get around to his music as soon as he had planned. Instead, he stays on his phone. The cicadas hum around him, and it lulls him into a unique kind of boredom. He taps away at the screen, waiting for the automatic to cycle.

Itaru’s not sure how long he stays out there. He knows in the back of his mind that he should put away the flute before it gets too dirty from the pollen of nearby trees. He’s not sure what pollen does to the cork padding of the keys, but he’s certain it wouldn’t be pretty. Still, he taps away at his screen.

“Slacking off?” Chikage’s voice comes from way too close for comfort.

Itaru looks up and finds him sitting a little off to the side : back to the bushes. For once, Chikage’s taken off his jacket. His sleeves, too, are rolled up a little. His tie’s loose just enough for it to be noticeable.

Itaru sniffs. “As if you’re not, too, senpai.”

“And what is it that I’m slacking off from, I wonder?”

“Uh, exams? You’re not immune to college entrance exams, senpai. Shouldn’t you be studying for those?”

“What an interesting assumption.”

“Please,” Itaru rolls his eyes, “it’s not as if someone like you would go straight into the working world.”

“Someone like me? I’m curious what you mean by that.”

“Surely someone like you would be better suited in the classroom than in a throwaway job.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

Itaru glares at him over his shoulder for a touch of a moment. Chikage smiles up at him.

“You’re smart, aren’t you?” Itaru mumbles. He taps at his screen viciously. “You’ll get into a nice school if you study.”

“I wonder.”

Chikage gets up from his spot in the grasses and dusts off his pants. Itaru watches from the corners of his eyes and refuses to meet his eyes. Last weekend might have been oddly comforting, but Chikage’s mood changes with the wind, and Itaru’s not keen on selling Chikage any of his secrets.

Chikage leans over his shoulder, and Itaru lays his phone face-down.

“Now, that’s just rude,” Chikage sighs. “Perhaps I was interested in whatever game you were playing.”

“You weren’t.”

“Ah, another curious assumption.”

“What do you _want_ , senpai?”

Itaru turns around to grumble the last bit of that question and stops short when he sees the glint in Chikage’s eyes : half-hidden behind those narrow frames. It occurs to Itaru that Chikage hadn’t been wearing this pair of glasses last weekend. The ones he had been wearing then were much wider. They had made Chikage feel strangely more open – more trustworthy – than these narrow lenses.

Chikage rests his hands on Itaru’s tense shoulders and gently leaves them there.

“And here I thought you might be kinder after last weekend.”

“ _I_ thought we already agreed that I’m not cute like that.”

“Fair enough,” Chikage huffs – a chuckle, perhaps – under his breath. “Well, if it makes you happy to know, I did have something I wanted from you today.”

“Oh no,” Itaru says, only half sarcastically. “What’s my unromantic, mean, untrustworthy senpai going to ask for from his innocent, little kouhai.”

“Alright, I think you’re pushing it.”

Itaru lets himself laugh a little at that. “Well, what did you want, then?”

“I’d like you to play something for me.”

“Play something?” Itaru turns around and loses Chikage’s hands from his shoulder. He’ll think about his chest’s response to that later. “Big no : too embarrassing. Seriously, senpai, that’s from a bad movie.”

“Here I didn’t realize you took long enough breaks from your games to ever watch a movie.”

“Shut up.”

“My request stands, Chigasaki.”

Itaru scowls. “Why?” he whines. “Tsumugi-san could play anything much better than I could. Don’t you know each other? You share a class, right?”

“Wouldn’t be able to connect the name to a face.”

Itaru narrows his eyes. Chikage’s lying, he knows this. Why, he doesn’t know.

Chikage’s smiling at him, but his eyes hold a warning. Itaru shouldn’t push on this issue. It’s a shame that Itaru has some of the worst stats for ‘Self-Preservation.’

“Senpai, you don’t have to lie to me-”

“I don’t remember us being so close, Chigasaki.”

The ice in Chikage’s voice is startling. Just a bit, Itaru moves away in his seat from him. But he doesn’t take it back. Maybe because he can’t seem to find his voice right now.

Chikage seems to take this silence as defiance. But instead of getting angry – which Itaru had expected, though he had no reason to assume this – Chikage merely deflates a little. From his bag, he pulls out pages of what Itaru recognizes as sheet music.

“You’re quite annoying,” Chikage says, “not being able to take a hint. That’ll come back to haunt you one day.”

“Is that you telling me to expect having you hang around for even longer?”

A small flicker of a grin creeps onto Chikage’s face and is hidden when Chikage adjusts his glasses. He lays the sheet music down on the table in front of Itaru. Itaru quickly slides it close and lifts it just a bit to read better.

Something in his stomach sinks when he recognizes the difficulty of the piece. This isn’t something for beginners to pick up, he recognizes this. It’s not so difficult as Tsumugi’s pieces, either, but it’s not at his level. It’s not for him.

“Sorry, senpai.” He lays the pages down. “That’s beyond my current character level.”

“As of now, I’d agree. Your skills would have to improve drastically to manage something like this.” Itaru throws him an unimpressed look. “ _But_ I think within a month or two, if you practice sincerely, you could play it for me.”

“Assuming I’d practice just to play you a piece of music.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

Itaru hesitates. Would he? He doesn’t trust the look in Chikage’s eyes : doesn’t trust the way he’s been acting around him at school. But he can’t deny that there’s something in this expectation that kindles something deep inside him : to perform – to perform well – and leave Chikage with nothing to criticize.

“You’re mean, senpai.”

“Is that a no?”

Itaru turns back to the table and stares at the sheet music. He doesn’t even know where he’d begin with this.

“I’ll do it,” he says anyway. “But this doesn’t mean anything.”

There’s a small huff from behind him, and those hands find his shoulders again. The coolness of Chikage’s ring reaches Itaru’s skin even through the fabric of his uniform shirt.

“How cute.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chikage has his own trauma and his own motivations... but also... maybe... he Does do things to help others...
> 
> aki-nee pls marry me... i would like to marry all the women in a3 pls jkjk i Do adore itaru and banris sisters tho. broke my heart to learn theyre married in-game 

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone eventually shows up, I promise! It just takes a while for the middle schoolers to join, since each half of the story is supposed to take roughly a year's worth of plot. This means that the first half will have fuyugumi but not most of natsugumi, and the second half will not have fuyugumi while natsugumi will be united. If it turns out that I just don't have the time to finish, I might continue with oneshot types of fics within the verse instead.


End file.
